


face death in the hope

by LullabyKnell



Series: LullabyKnell and the Harry Potter Fics [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Emotional Baggage, Family, Family Feels, First War with Voldemort, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, I have so many feelings about Regulus Black, Introspection, Light Angst, Long Shot, Marauders' Era, POV Alternating, POV Harry Potter, POV Regulus Black, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potter Family, Pre-Slash, Recovery, Redemption, Regulus Black Lives, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Trauma, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 104,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/pseuds/LullabyKnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry looks vaguely nervous, scratching the back of his neck. “It's a really long story,” he says finally, almost apologetically, “and it's really hard to believe.”</p><p>“Try me,” Regulus says, more than a little daringly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voice in the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I know I will be dead long before you read this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5910550) by [LullabyKnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/pseuds/LullabyKnell). 



> Because [I made a comic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5910550) and got inspired, and now there's this. I like time-travel and have lots of feelings on the subject of Regulus Black, and I figured I might as well write something with a pairing for once. 
> 
> _"To the Dark Lord,_  
>  _I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I **face death in the hope** that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more._  
>  _R.A.B."_
> 
> \- J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his head-mind-overflowing-breaking-place is every horror he committed and regretted, and every horror he enjoyed or couldn't dredge-pull anything past the apathy-defence-protecting-emptiness for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in canon, Kreacher stayed to watch Regulus get pulled under the water. Here, we're going to pretend that Regulus ordered Kreacher away before he went to the water, for some reason like not wanting the elf to witness his death or he was under negative cave enchantment influences or something. I haven't read the series for awhile, especially the last three books, so there may be a few continuity errors with canon, probably small ones similar to the one above. Just ignore them, and I'll try to keep everything as logical as HP can inherently be.  
> This opens up from Regulus' point of view. Specifically, it opens up from Regulus' point of view under the influence of the Drink of Despair. So it's pretty incoherent, rambling, self-depreciating, and depressing. Watch out for that.

Kreacher – loyal, devoted Kreacher-servant-helper – vanishes with the bad-wrong-wicked locket with an easy _pop!_

Good, he needs to be away-gone-not-here.

The disappearance – the Disapparation-escape-swirling-space that cannot touch him here – echoes through the cave-lake-temple-to-the-Dark-Lord's-monstrosity.

… _pop! … pop! … pop!_

Then the pops disappear too and he is left with nothing but each, every, and all regrets of his life.

His life wasn't very long – wasn't very full either, not of life-living-fulfilling-things at least – but he has so very many regrets-mistakes-painful-memories. They scream, howl, and shriek at him, hammering at his head and making his thoughts overflow. He could live with the noise-torture-pain, he thinks – it's nothing he hasn't really had to live with before for all his shortness-emptiness-not-life, but it's the whispers that are driving him mad-pained-insane. The murmurs and staring and knowingness coming out of every dark spot in his mind, just as they have throughout his hated service – his proud- great-terrifying slavery – his corrupting-sickening-corroding submission.

His fingers scrabble-scratch-scrape over the dry rock, dusty pebbles, hard ground. He gains cuts and slices and raw skin, but the hurt as he crawls is nothing against the regrets-hate-remorse swimming in his dizzy vision. He crawls forward like a pitiful-hateful-shameful-pathetic wretch, and has bruises-aches-jarring-echoes in his limbs from his fall-collapse to the floor, but these are nothing too.

The only physical-real pain that can compete with the memories-mistakes-shame is the agonizing dryness of his throat-mouth-lips-face. Trapped in his throat is a desert-sand-salt-thirst that claws-bites-scratches at him, choking him with times-past-memories-regrets that have faded but never really gone away. Words said and held back threaten his lungs as the images flash by.

He recalls-remembers-relives every dark-curse-bloodshed-evil that he hadn't truly wanted to cast but been forced-ordered-coerced into. Along with every dark-curse-revenge-release that he wanted-needed-desperately-desired to cast far too much – he'd known it was wrong-unjust-bad but everyone around him said, ' _good-perfect-well-done'_ and sometimes it felt so right-easy-good.

In his head-mind-overflowing-breaking-place is every horror he committed and regretted, and every horror he enjoyed or couldn't dredge-pull anything past the apathy-defence-protecting-emptiness for. In his throat is every cry-outburst-demand that left his lips too early or too late or not at all, because he was too afraid, too lost, too uncertain.

Stand up for the mother – _'she's right, you're too wild' –_ and lose the brother. (Too early.)

Stand up for the brother – _'stop it, he doesn't deserve this' –_ and lose the mother. (Too late.)

Stand up against the father – _'do something, stop scowling and intervene for once, please' –_ and lose the name-family-honour-heritage. (Not at all.)

They're both right-wrong-raging-blind, and in the end he's lost them all-both. Can't please father – dead-disappeared-vanished now-suddenly-too-soon. Can't please mother – dying-sick-leaving-slowly now-finally-too-soon. Can't please brother – gone-abandoned-them now-long-ago-ages-back.

Can't please the family-overbearing-watchers either. He's just not enough – never enough – being the spare-extra-backup who just can't live up to the rebellious-ungrateful-wild heir.

He's not as smart-clever-witty – _'you can't even match your brother's marks when we need you to best him, useless child'_  . Not as charismatic-likeable-admired – _'for Morgana's sake, speak above a mumble if you're going to talk'_  . Not as fierce-decisive-steadfast – _'you're a Black, appearances are everything; act superior and don't you dare let them know how inferior you are'_  . Not as talented-skilled-prodigious – _'would have liked the full set, eh, my boy'._ He's not even as good-looking-handsome-bearable-to-look-at.

They're so proud of him, bragging to everyone-anyone-especially-the-brother, but he's not-never enough – he's not the heir-perfect-doll thing they wanted either. They just can't let the wild-child-abandoning heir know that he's left them with a spare-extra-backup who's good-average-barely-acceptable but not as anything-everything as they wanted-needed-desired him to be. Need to show the brother up, take revenge for his desertion-abandonment-escape.

But the black-cloaks-snake-arms know the truth, the eaters-blood-lovers-haters don't bother to pretend he's what they wanted. He's not much-at-all like his cousins – not a beserker, can't even be a breeder – and they'd take the runaway brother too if the lost heir wasn't a bloodtraitor-lion-rebel. He's too soft, with too weak a stomach. He's not Dark enough to be a true Black, not hateful enough to be a true pureblood.

Can't please the Dark Lord either – not as fierce-talented-admirable as his brother – _'how terribly disappointing' –_ nor as ferocious-devoted-bloodthirsty as his cousin – ' _dear, destructive Bella'_. He can't please the Dark Lord and doesn't want to, because under the handsome-face-charismatic-words-lies, past the newspaper-clippings-pureblood-gossip, bait of brotherhood-ideals-glory, there is a great and terrible monster.

He has helped-served-allowed-admired a man who will destroy-ruin-corrupt them all.

There is so much-many blood-bodies-life on the ground-graves that the mud-Muggles can't be told from the pure-magic. How will they remake-return-to-glory the world when everyone is dead-sick-gone? The monster-man-lord is making-seducing-persuading them into losing their traditions and their culture and their people. Soon the pure-toujours-pur will be associated with monsters-murderers-evil and their world-hidden-magic will collapse-be-revealed under war-ruin-madman's-plot.

And to think that he had once been so proud-happy-delighted to serve-be-useful-be-different-be-better.

Voldemort-flying-death has made himself immortal-can't-be-killed – the man-monster-god is a dead-eater-murderer-soul-breaker – and must be stopped before he ruins them-all-family-everything. It can't be him-crawling-wretch who does it, but someone-anyone-someone has to. Will they?

He couldn't do it. He couldn't even destroy the evil-horrible locket – had to give it to helper-creature-servant like some pathetic-inferior-useless thing that needs a house-elf-lesser-thing to take it away and find another way. It can't be him, too busy-consumed with crawling-dying-dragging himself to the water for water-death-relief. He couldn't fight the monster-immortal-man – he's too Dark, too Black, too not good enough in too-many-so-many ways – has to be someone good-better- _good._

(Brother, maybe? But why would he help? He's gone-hates-him-not-here.)

Couldn't stop brother from leaving-abandoning-escaping. Couldn't stop cousins from breaking-apart-fracturing. Couldn't stop father from dying-leaving-disappearing. Couldn't stop mother from getting sick-twisted, burning brother off the wall-house-family. Couldn't, should've but couldn't, he can't do anything, he couldn't do it, it can't be him.

He's useless-not-enough-pathetic and he deserves crawling-dying-disappearing here-now-finally. There's no point in leaving-escaping-continuing. He's made-done-committed so many mistakes-regrets-horrors. He can't stop-fight-destroy the monster-lord-master, and can only hope uselessly-pathetically-helplessly that when the flying-death-ruin meets a match-hero-good-person. He can only hope that the immortal-cannibal-god will be mortal-killable-touchable once more, when some brave-competent-heroic someone else takes up the fight.

He reaches for the black water – his end, his relief, his due – which seems so far away. He's so thirsty-tired-pained and he wants-need-desires nothing more than a stop to this agony-despair-everything. He can't fight anymore, he can barely crawl, and he can't quite reach the water yet.

All he can do is face his death, his end, his last breath, and hope. 

A hand appears from the darkness and reaches out – reaches down – to take his reaching fingers in a warm-careful-gentle grasp. He cannot help but gasp and look up desperately at his saviour-friend-foe, breathless and agonized and helpless. All he wants-needs is some water-relief-ending and he is already asking-demanding-begging for it before he sees their face, and still when he has seen them and cannot place them in the memories-regrets-mistakes swirling before his eyes and scratching at his throat.

A part of him thinks that he would recall-remember-know eyes that green-bright-lovely, but the rest of him – so much more of him – is lost in agony, desperation, and adamant despair.

“Please... _please,_ ” he says to the stranger, but they either do not reply or he cannot hear them.

With warm-firm hands and gentle-strong arms they pull him away from the water-death-relief he needs-craves-wants, ignoring his feeble struggles and desperate begging. They settle him down near the bowl again, so cruel-kind, away from the black water he keeps straining towards.

He thinks he begs them some more, tells them he hates them, pleads and bargains like some wretched-inferior-pathetic potion or charm addict that his mother-family always scorned. His enemy-saviour-stranger ignores him though, easily holding him down and casting a spell that blissfully warms him up from head to toe.

This distracts him long enough for the stranger to rummage away with something for a moment. There are a series of unfamiliar-odd-alien crinkles and crackles, and suddenly sweet-blessed-merciful water is lapping against his dry-parched-pained lips.

He forgets things like dignity and pride and shame almost immediately. It it only the gentle-forceful-firm hands of the stranger that keep him from spilling all the wonderful water in his desperation for it. Even held down and with the stranger holding the container, half of the water still seems to dribble-pour-splash over half his face and his clothes instead of stopping the agony in his throat.

It's something, but it doesn't quench-relieve-stop the pain. It almost feels worse, now that he's had a taste of what he's been needing-wanting-craving. He whimpers at the stranger, almost crying out in tortured longing as they yank the empty container away and make it crinkle out of sight.

But then the container is back and it is full of relieving-curing water again. He drains it just as desperately and quickly as the last one, drenching himself and definitely losing whatever dignity he still had. Not that he cared about anything except a stop to the thirst-agony-pain right now.

He and the stranger repeat the process two more times before his thoughts align themselves into a semblance of real consciousness and coherence. He becomes less dizzy and less desperate, stops spilling water everywhere and becomes capable of sitting up and drinking on his own. After the fourth container of water, he feels well-enough (not entirely like death warmed over) to refuse the fifth, at least for a moment.

The stranger sits back without protest, removing their warm hands and arms. (He almost protests, but he's just now realizing he's embarrassingly soaked and must make for an utterly pathetic picture right now. He was reliant and helpless and that's unacceptable for a Black.) He watches the stranger reach for a strange white cap, which they screw back onto the clear bottle of water so they can set it down next to four capless, empty ones and one other capped, full one sitting in a torn package that looks as distinctly Muggle as the bottles themselves.

He starts to wonder – worry, panic – if he's just been poisoned somehow, but then the stranger picks up a familiar stick and offers it to him freely. He wants to snatch it back, but instead accepts his wand back – _'fourteen inches, holly and unicorn hair, this is a most dependable and loyal wand; go on and give it a wave' –_ carefully, cautiously, and silently very gratefully.

“Who are you?” Regulus demands hoarsely of his saviour...? Friend? Foe?

The dark cavern is illuminated by the stranger's wand on the ground – a long, pale, and elegant thing that looks vaguely familiar somehow – and he is able-minded enough to study them now. At first glance, Regulus' stranger saviour is an almost exact reflection of his brother's best friend. But at further inspection, they are very obviously not.

It is a young man, clearly a Potter, but younger than the one Regulus knows – maybe even younger than Regulus. This strange, fellow youth sitting on his heels would not be out of place in the halls of Hogwarts, which Regulus himself hadn't left even six months ago. At least, he wouldn't be out of place if not for his baggy, Muggle clothing. This Potter is slightly shorter and much thinner than than his relative, than Regulus himself, but he also has a hard, wirey muscle to him that Regulus' leanness does not. It's a different kind of build – more Seeker-like – against the other Potter's solid, Chaser frame.

And though Regulus is not an expert on his brother's friend, this Potter seems much softer in face, and his glasses are round and hideous and do him no favours. He does have the inky black, uncooperative hair, but green eyes are not a Potter trait. Regulus is sure he would remember eyes as green as the ones watching him – judging him – right now.

“I'm Harry,” the stranger says finally, much more softly than the loud tones Regulus remembers.

Regulus considers him for a moment, debating on what to push and how. He has so many questions and asking questions can be very dangerous. But the stranger (Harry) has returned his wand, probably (definitely) saved his life (by stopping his sacrifice), and has made no effort to reach for the elegant-pale-familiar wand glowing softly on the ground next to them. He has to take what little he knows and apply it as best he can.

“Potter?” Regulus asks cautiously, gripping his wand tightly with numb fingers.

But Harry only snorts and rocks off his heels, sitting properly down on the rocky floor. “What gave it away?” he asks dryly, carelessly waving a hand over his face. “Was something specific or just the general everything?”

Regulus' lips twitch before he can help it. That's something he knows well; it's a mix of family pride and annoyance whenever anyone takes one look at him and immediately pronounces him a Black. It always happened at his family's events and Slug Club parties, and sometimes he thought it might as well have been stamped on his forehead.

And speaking of foreheads, Regulus now notices a strange scar on Harry's. It's a faint red, almost hidden by his hair, and shaped like a lightning-bolt. That's a magical scar if he's ever seen one, and it's either one of several runes or... well, something impossible.

“Why are you here? How did you find this place?” Regulus asks, on the subject of impossible things. This stranger's sudden appearance makes no sense, none that he can see, and he needs answers. “And... why did you -" _Stop me._  "- save me?”

Now Harry finally looks vaguely nervous, scratching the back of his neck. “It's a really long story,” he says finally, almost apologetically, “and it's really hard to believe.”

That's not an acceptable answer. Regulus would have never found this place without Kreacher, who was brought here by the Dark Lord himself. How did this stranger find this place? And what are the odds that they would be here at the exact time to rescue Regulus from the fate that, unlike his house elf, he wouldn't have been able to escape from? How did this stranger know what Regulus planned to risk, to do, to give? 

“Try me,” Regulus says, more than a little daringly.

Harry gives him this look, somewhere between amused and slightly disbelieving. Regulus just stares back, trying to project as much sureness and certainty as possible. Like it'll stop his hands from shaking and his blood from pumping and make the whispers still in the back of his head shut up. Maybe if he focuses on something else, anything else, his chest and bones and everything won't ache like open wounds while he sits here – barely, terribly, unexpectedly alive.

“Okay then,” Harry says easily, “I was born on July 31st, 1980. My parents are James Potter and Lily Evans. Three days ago, I died in 1998 and woke up here.” He looks off into space, cocking his head, lips flattening in a way that is eerily reminiscent of Gryffindor's Head of House as he says, “I'm still not sure how or why exactly.”

Regulus stares, stops thinking entirely, and the only reason he doesn't gape is because he's a Black and _'Blacks don't gape like the rabble'._ He just freezes, learned habits taking over trying to keep his face as blank and unsurprised as possible, and he's not sure they succeed.

Harry just watches him patiently, crossing his legs and putting his chin in one hand. “Yeah, that was basically my reaction when I realized this was really happening,” he says, “and you at least get to have it with your pants on. I arrived without _anything._ ”

Regulus may be many things, but he's also eighteen and his eyes can't help but widen at that implication.

“Anything?” he manages weakly, trying desperately not to imagine that. If he's not all that successful, he attributes his moment of weakness to that fact that he just almost died and he's still a little bit in shock from that. Also the general everything of Harry's very frank statements.

Harry tugs at the collar of his ugly, oversized, long-sleeved, Muggle t-shirt and releases it. “Anything,” he confirms with a grimace, face looking only slightly flushed.

Or maybe that's just Regulus projecting because his face feels like it's burning. All the water sloshed on his face and the front of his clothes is just going to boil off. As a distraction from the fact that his (fairly good-looking) saviour just claimed to have come back from the dead and travelled through time, that is one that works remarkably well.

Regulus wants to immediately dismiss the idea of Harry being from the future as ridiculous, but time travel isn't unheard of, even if coming back from the dead definitely is. Also, Harry looks very, _very_ much like James Potter, and Regulus remembers the Head Girl from last year – she was in the Slug Club with him (a favourite student despite her bad blood) and he remembers her vivid green eyes very clearly. Finally, Regulus might still be a little bit (a lot) off-balance and in some kind of shock.

There's also the fact that Harry saved him, hasn't to his knowledge cast anything but a Warming Charm on him, doesn't seem to have poisoned him or fed him any potions, and has yet to reach for the lit wand on the ground beside him while Regulus remains armed. Regulus can curse him in any way he pleases at any moment, but he seems perfectly confident and apparently relaxed, if sharply wary underneath both those things.

Besides, after a lifetime as a Black, seven years in Slytherin, and his service as a Death Eater, Regulus would like to think that he's quite good at recognizing lies and threats.

Harry is either a very, _very_ good liar or... he's telling the truth.

 

 


	2. Holding Out a Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you prove it?” Regulus asks carefully, gripping his wand in a way so that he can easily turn it on his saviour if it proves necessary when/if Harry can't prove anything.

“Can you prove it?” Regulus asks carefully, gripping his wand in a way so that he can easily turn it on his saviour if it proves necessary when/if Harry can't prove anything.

Harry thinks about it for a few seconds, but not in a way that indicates he's planning to lie or doesn't have an answer. “I could tell you something that nobody in this time should know?” Harry offers finally. “It's part of how I knew you were here and what you were doing.”

That sounds... very agreeable. 

“Fine.”

“Okay, so you joined the Death Eaters at sixteen, right?” Harry begins. “Your family liked the Dark Lord and were very proud. You have a bunch of articles about him stuck to your bedroom wall at Grimmauld Place.”

Regulus' grip on his wand tightens. “Yes,” he confirms, somewhat uneased but attributing it to the shakiness of the emerald potion he drank. That's not deeply secret information, but the possible sources are not the sort of people who'd easily give up information to Potters.

“I dunno much about you besides that, really,” Harry says assuringly, eyeing Regulus' wand sharply but staying admirably relaxed. “Most of what I know is about the locket.” When Regulus very carefully doesn't react, Harry very carefully continues, “Sometime recently, Vol... Hold on, is his name Taboo right now?”

The Dark Lord doesn't tell many of his Death Eaters much, so Regulus shamefully has no idea what the Dark Lord's current whims are in regards to his name. “I am unaware if it's enacted at the moment,” he says, forcing his face straight and trying to keep the flush off his cheeks.

“Em, best not to risk it then, eh?” Harry says awkwardly.

“Best not,” Regulus agrees.

Harry nods, then says, “Okay, so... sometime recently, old snake-face-”

Regulus chokes on absolutely nothing, because old _what?_ But even though Harry notices, his saviour just looks amused as Regulus forces out, “Pardon?”

“Well, it suits him, right?” Harry waves a hand over his face in an incomprehensible gesture, as though trying to wordlessly describe the Dark Lord. Then he adds defensively, “Because he's got those scales and the flat nose and those red eyes? He looks like a snake. Sounds like one too, sometimes.”

Regulus manages to stop choking without magic and just stares at his saviour, plain disbelief and recent events winning over the need for a blank expression. He wonders, now, if Harry is insane. The Dark Lord has a terrible, inhuman edge to his appearance from decades of the Dark Arts, and the foul ritual magic of his journey towards immortality, but... _snake-face?_

“Uh... I can call him something else?” Harry offers after the silence draws out too long.

For the sake of Regulus' sanity at the moment, “Please.”

“I'll call him Tom then. It's his name, after all,” Harry decides easily.

Regulus wonders now if his saviour is actually going to be the death of him.

“Fine, so sometime recently, _Tom_ needed a house elf for some unspecified task,” Harry continued, apparently ignorant of the way Regulus' heart just seems to stop. “You volunteer Kreacher for the task and tell him it's an honour to be chosen, and you tell him to attend to Tom's task and then come home.”

One of the biggest regrets of Regulus' life: forcing Kreacher to go through the Dark Lord's mad plans because it's an _'honour to be proud of'._ His only saving grace was his reflexive order for Kreacher to come right back home afterwards. Maybe some part of him was aware that the loyal servant might not come back. Sometimes Death Eaters didn't come back from the Dark Lord's tasks, so a house elf's chances seemed appallingly slim.

“So Kreacher comes to this cave and is forced to drink that awful potion. Tom just laughs at him, drops the locket into the basin, refills the potion, and leaves. Needing water, Kreacher is almost drowned by the Inferi in the lake, but recalls your order to come home and tells you everything.”

Kreacher surviving and the Dark Lord's ignorance of such is the only reason Regulus was able to find the locket so easily. Else they both would likely be dead at the moment. This is information deeply secret, things that only three beings should know partly and two should know entirely, and yet Harry says it easily, like Regulus hasn't been living in fear for his family's safety ever since it happened.

“I dunno what happens between, but eventually you come to Kreacher and tell him to take you back to the cave,” Harry continues, “and order him not to tell anyone in the family where you've gone or what you've done to keep them safe. You drink the potion, switch the Horcrux -”

Regulus almost jumps out of his skin at the casual mention of the Darkest Arts he knows of, but Harry goes on undaunted, like a split soul and irreparable evil is old news. It might be, to him.

“- for the fake locket, try to destroy the real one and can't, and then send Kreacher off with orders to destroy it. Then -” Harry's serious expression becomes somewhat grim now. “- you're drowned by the Inferi and no one knows where you disappeared to. Kreacher tries to destroy the real locket but can't, can't tell the family what happened, and no one realizes anything until they try to steal the locket and find out it's a fake.”

A silence falls between them, and stays there for a long while.

Regulus suddenly feels as though his heart and lungs have shrunk several sizes. He just... he just came very, _very_ close to death today, didn't he? And for _that?_  That's not... that's not the future he would have hoped for, with him dead - vanished, _forgotten,_ which is probably expected but not painless - and the Dark Lord alive for years longer. He's entirely certain that the magical world can't survive years more of the Dark Lord – everything is fracturing and falling apart already.

But then he remembers that Harry, if he really is from the future, is solid proof that the world survived. And if no one realized anything for years, does that include the Dark Lord along with his family? Did he manage to keep them safe with his sacrifice? Thank Morgana.

But that does beg the question... When was it realized? How? And how does Harry – a _Potter_ of all people – know these things?

“Kreacher told you this story,” Regulus says finally, breaking the silence. There's no one else the information could have come from, if he really did... die. “I ordered him not to tell the family, but...” Oh, _Morgana._ “...you're not family.”

Harry's eyes widen slightly in surprise, but then he looks impressed. “Yeah.”

Regulus knows his family's loyal servant reasonably well, and he feels he should have anticipated that gaping gate. House elves and their loopholes! Regulus was _just_ taking advantage of the Dark Lord overlooking a simple house elf, wasn't he? But... Kreacher would never willingly betray Regulus or the Black Family.

“Why would he tell you family secrets?” Regulus demands, maybe a touch too harshly, concerned for his servant and his family.

Harry eyes him warily again, but still stays apparently relaxed. “I inherited him from Sirius,” he answers carefully. “Sirius was my godfather. He made me his heir.”

_Sirius_ was _my godfather._

“...Sirius died?” Regulus says quietly.

A brief flash of pain crosses Harry's face. “Yeah,” he replies softly. “In my fifth year.”

Regulus closes his eyes as he assimilates that information, but not for long with this stranger in front of him saying such dangerous things. Not for at least nearly sixteen years then, almost Regulus' whole lifetime. Nothing urgent then, no more danger than his brother is in every day already being a bloodtraitor to the Black Family.

_How?_ He wants to ask, to know how his selfish, perfect, wild lion of a brother died, but he also doesn't. He's still shaken to the core on the inside hearing of his own death, he doesn't think he can handle Sirius' too. The pain on Harry's face doesn't suggest it was a pleasant death, if there is such a thing. Regulus doesn't know any ways for anyone to die pleasantly at thirty-six years old.

He nearly just died horribly at eighteen, and if Harry can prevent Regulus', he can prevent Sirius' death too. As the son of James Potter, it makes more sense for Harry to give a damn about his godfather rather than a terrible, traitorous Death Eater who died before he was born.

And that means it was over sixteen years before anyone found out how Regulus died, an unknown number of years before his fake locket was discovered, and likely over sixteen years before the real locket was found.

“Was it eventually destroyed?” Regulus asks quietly.

“The locket?” Harry asks, then nods. “We found a way.”

At those words, Regulus breathes out a sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding in. He hangs his head into the comfort of his free hand for a moment. He's exhausted and tired and shaky, his throat is still slightly parched, he's still a bit damp, and he just found out he really was supposed to die today, just as expected but without the results he hoped for, and his brother sixteen years from now. His grip on his wand has his knuckles white and his shoulders are trembling uncontrollably, and he feels horribly, shamefully humbled.

He spots movement out of the corner of his eye and has his wand pointed at Harry before he knows what he's doing. Harry freezes in the middle of getting to his feet, a hand hovering above his glowing wand, and cautiously eyes Regulus' shaking arm.

“I'm all for continuing this conversation, but I don't really fancy being in this cave any longer,” Harry says carefully. “It's not particularly safe in here, and it's... honestly, it's just really creepy here.” Then a concerned look crosses his face. “And besides Kreacher, everyone I know who drank that potion died soon after, so I'd rather not push my luck any more than usual.”

That's a... that's a fairly decent point.

“Can I pick up my wand now?” Harry asks, still holding himself perfectly still despite his half-rising position that has to be uncomfortable. It's kind of irritating, Regulus is sitting down and he can't even stop his outstretched arm from shaking like a first-year in front of a ghost.

“'May I',” Regulus corrects.

Harry stares blankly at him. “What?”

Regulus doesn't even know, really, but he's already half on the broomstick, so... “It's 'may I pick up my wand now', not 'can I pick up my wand now',” he says, lowering his wand because his arm's starting to ache and trying not to let his face flush.

Harry just stares at him for awhile longer, then he grins slightly and says, “ _May I_ pick up my wand now?” He looks incredibly good-humoured about it, and wriggles his fingers questioningly over the fallen stick even though Regulus has already lowered his wand.

Regulus arches an eyebrow at him, ignoring the warmth of his own face. “I _suppose_ you may.”

It's supposed to be an attempt at similar good humour, but it comes out a touch too haughty and a brush too biting and superiorly unimpressed. As it usually does. Soft remarks and teasing without thorns aren't exactly things that the Black Family is known for, even Sirius didn't manage to break that pattern.

But Harry doesn't seem to mind, even rolls his eyes as he scoops up his glowing wand and brings himself fully upright. He shakes out his head and his limbs, wand held with the casual but firm grip of someone ready to defend themselves at any moment. Regulus feels more than a little hazy, but he can still tell someone with combat experience from someone without, and he catches the way Harry keeps an eye on the black water all around them.

There really is something familiar about that wand. Regulus knows he's seen it somewhere before – it's oddly long and has a dated, unique design – but he just can't place it at the moment. He wants to ask, but it's a bit of a faux-pas to just come out and ask someone about their wand. Regulus was raised better than that, and sharing wand details with a stranger is asking to get your throat slit.

Harry starts putting the water bottles back into their packaging and Regulus starts working on trying to stand up in the meanwhile. Moving forward is quick to tell him that trying to stand up without support will see his face planting into the rock, leaving spots dancing in his vision and a vicious pain cutting through his side. He clutches his middle and makes a pathetic sound, leaning against the basin's rock just so he doesn't end up crawling over the rock again.

Then Harry's warm hands and arms are there again, supporting him and pushing his loosely-held wand back into his hand before he can drop it.

“Easy, easy,” Harry says, somewhere between gentle and anxious. “You're going to feel weak right now. Don't worry, I'll get us back. Lean on me.” He pulls Regulus up, a joint effort between them, and pulls Regulus non-wand arm around his shoulders. “Just lean on me.”

Regulus blinks blearily up at his brother's best friend's son from the future. “You've done this before,” he guesses, dizzy from his journey from sitting to standing and mind whirling to figure out what he can from the hints Harry's given up so far. “You stole my locket.”

“Worst surprise of my life, Mister R.A.B.,” Harry answers, pulling him towards the boat. “Come on, move your legs. Walking usually has one foot going out in front of the other, you know. I'm not a broomstick.”

“No, brooms don't talk as much,” Regulus mutters irritably, head pounding and limbs aching as he _tries_ to walk. He's trying – really trying – and doesn't need useless, nagging encouragement right in his ear when its his legs that are not cooperating. He hates being reliant and useless and weak, but he doesn't exactly have any other options at the moment (he  _failed_ ), and... Harry doesn't seem to be annoyed or disappointed or pitying, just a touch anxious and concerned at their general situation.

Harry snorts. “If only your legs were as fit as your mouth,” he says... teasingly? That sounds almost like teasing, only without the bite and thorns Regulus is familiar with.

“Takes one to know one,” Regulus replies, more awkwardly than he'd like.

Harry snorts again and then they're standing in front of the eerie boat. “Alright, so this can only carry one adult wizard at a time,” Harry says. “We can't both go across at the same time.”

Regulus frowns slightly in confusion. “How did you get over here in the first place?”

“Found the chain and pulled, then came over, all while you were out of it,” Harry answers. Then he adds, a little more quietly, “Almost thought I wouldn't reach you in time.”

Regulus feels a shiver down his spine at the thought of how close he'd been to reaching into the black water. _Thank Morgana, that you did._

 


	3. There Are Some Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are bodies everywhere beneath the dark surface, milling about in clear agitation, crawling over one another in an underwater horde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of J.K. Rowling, _“There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.”_ I figure Inferi are pretty close to that.

“D'you think you can get yourself across?” Harry asks.

Not really, but... “I can try,” Regulus says, making an attempt to step forward and nearly falling on his face into the black water.

Harry catches him before he can, pulling him back into his arms, and Regulus can feel his face flushing with embarrassment as he's forced to lean against Harry's chest. He opens his mouth to make some witty, angry comment to distract from how pathetic and useless he is at the moment, but he's also in the middle of getting a good look at the shapes beneath the water. His biting comment dies in his throat and his flushed face pales immediately.

Inferi. There are bodies _everywhere_ beneath the dark surface, milling about in clear agitation, crawling over one another in an underwater horde – some full-bodied, some breaking in pieces – an undead swarm of powerful, awe-inspiring Necromancy that still surprises Regulus even after two years of being Marked. He's seen the Dark Lord perform great and terrible acts of magic, but this is... this is... there must be over a _hundred_ of them at least.

“They're definitely coming up towards the surface,” Harry says grimly, also watching the milling bodies crawl closer and closer towards them. “Maybe splitting up isn't the greatest idea at the moment... unless you think you can take them.”

Not all that far away, a shrunken hand breaks the surface of the water and then disappears again, as though tossing and turning in some kind of not-sleep.

“No, I... I thought I subdued their awakening,” Regulus admits weakly, humbled again by his sheer, unadulterated arrogance in thinking he could slip around their notice, “but... apparently not.” He catches glimpses of several empty eyes staring at them. “They're focused on us now.”

Harry sighs heavily, like this is annoying but to be expected, which is at odds to the frantic racing of his heartbeat that Regulus can feel through his neck. When Regulus looks at him, he's slightly paled, but he looks incredibly resolute instead of terrified. Like he just doesn't have time to be scared of the largest collection of Inferi and general Necromancy that Regulus has ever seen.

“Just once, I'd like to leave a place without having to fight my way out,” Harry comments dryly, twirling his strange wand in his hand as an elbow breaks the surface this time. “No dragons, no Fiendfyre, no Inferi, no Dementors, you know?”

Regulus stares at Harry and only does not gape because Blacks do not gape. “No,” he says flatly.

“I can't remember the last time we had anything that went according to plan,” Harry says wistfully, then looks apologetically at Regulus as another eerie splash echoes through the dark cave. “There's an army of restless Inferi after us, but they're absolutely _terrified_ of fire and won't go near it. That boat will only carry one of us at a time and you probably can't sit up on your own. Any bright ideas?”

Regulus leans away from the water slightly as the Inferi draw nearer. “I don't think we're going to avoid getting attacked,” he answers, hazy mind racing for an answer. “If you think you can fight them off, we could Transfigure our own boat.”

“...That might work,” Harry agrees after a moment of thought. “But we don't exactly have anything to Transfigure. I was in a bit of a hurry and all I brought were the water bottles and a knife.”

“Those will have to do,” Regulus says urgently as a head finally breaks the water's surface.

Harry, also staring in horror at the head, just says, “Right, then stand best you can and get ready to fire. _Accio_ water bottles.”

Harry removes one arm – his non-wand one – from around Regulus to catch the package, which he immediately tosses into the black water. It lands with a small splash that seems impossibly large, and Regulus can see the underwater Inferi surge up towards it and them. Before it's even landed though, Harry is pointing his strange wand at it, and says a N.E.W.T.-level incantation with such ferocious concentration that it's not all that surprising when the Muggle packaging erupts into a full-fledged, translucent boat as large as the eerie vessel beside it.

The Transfiguration is immediately followed by a fierce blast of fire towards the pale things reaching up to sink, which all quail back from the inferno pouring from Harry's odd wand's tip. Harry turns his wand over the agitated water's surface in an enormous, steady stream of flames, forcing back the heads and hands and undead bodies attempting to rise from its depths. He supports a half-standing Regulus as best he can and turns his wand all around them, until they're surrounded by a viciously hot, swirling wall of fire that sends many of the fearsome Inferi fleeing for the bottom of the lake.

Regulus mainly focuses on standing, but also manages to turn his own wand on the few Inferi slipping through or trying to sink the Transfigured boat. He curses them as viciously as he can, painful flames slicing into their shrunken skin and burning into whatever flesh they touch like a poison. Harry keeps the horde at large away, but Regulus turns his wand on the few that really come close and _rips_ them apart with cursed fire, even through the water, scaring away any Inferi trying for their boat.

Harry was right, the Necromantic things are absolutely _terrified_ of fire.

Once Harry deems the space they have decent, he pulls Regulus forward into the Transfigured boat and they clamber in. Regulus' limbs are embarrassingly clumsy, he more or less falls inelegantly into the vessel, but the important thing is that he's in and Harry is shoving them off the shore of the Horcrux's island. While Harry charms their boat into sailing forward, Regulus pulls himself up with shaking limbs and pours more cursed fire into the water to keep the undead away, and to divest himself of his anger and fear at this entire situation.

Rightful revenge may play a relatively small part of it.

And then Harry starts up the inferno again. The flames are inelegant and directionless except for around them and down, but Regulus can't deny that it's massive, powerful, and effective at keeping the Inferi back if not destroying them. Besides protecting them, the fire lights up most of the cave and burns away the black opaqueness of the water. If Harry had a spark less of control, they'd both be nursing some horrible burns at the moment if the heat is anything to go back, and at such a display, the Inferi don't seem to dare to breach the surface. Most of them are moving down and away, and Regulus doesn't know if the undead can feel fear, but it definitely looks like it and it's so _very_ satisfying to see _._

The biting, ripping, absolutely destroying curse flames – the absolute worst that he can summon without killing them both – that Regulus sends into the water to encourage them probably helps the deepest depths seem like a kinder place to the Necromantic things that nearly _killed him._ If he and Harry are lucky, the Inferi are mindless enough to interpret his vicious avenging as the effects of Harry's massive, warding fire.

There's a painful slosh to Regulus' stomach and a deep ache in his limbs, but he ignores them both and forces himself to do his part and make sure none of the Dark Lord's creations actually manage to bring about his death. Sending out the cursed fire gives him an even worse shaking in his hands and a burning sensation somewhere between his lungs and his heart, but he ignores that too because he _doesn't want to die here._ The spotting of his vision could be the emerald potion or too much magic in a weakened condition, but neither of those are going to matter much if he's _dead_ at the hands of these fearful, mindless, disgusting pieces of some of the worst sort of magic imaginable.

But watching the Inferi get torn apart and rapidly consumed by the cursed fire only seems to make Regulus angrier somehow. Like every possessed corpse he destroys is another blatant reminder of how close he came to dying, having failed to destroy the Horcrux, having stupidly and arrogantly sent Kreacher away, needing to be saved by a youth out of time. How he's weak and tired and damp, and now actually has to live with all these consequences and be reliant on _luck_ and a complete stranger.

They're across the lake in a time that Regulus' head says was short but his supporting arms say was far too long. When they hit the shore, he tries to fully right himself and immediately climb out, but his clumsy limbs aren't cooperative and Harry has to basically half-carry, half-shove him out of the Transfigured boat. They nearly collapse – _hard –_ on the stone shore, and the flames over the waters die out as they scramble to right and untangle themselves.

It's especially hard because Regulus can't stand without swaying like he's stolen all his mother's sherry stash, and is likely to flop into the water or onto the rock like her onto the private parlour sofa without Harry keeping him upright. In the time it takes them to right themselves enough to cast spells, with Regulus' arm around Harry's shoulders and Harry's around his waist, the Inferi have noticed the lack of flames and several dark shapes are floating up towards them.

Regulus raises his shaking wand to curse them back – see if the bloodless puppets can feel _pain_ as well as fear – but Harry interrupts by dragging him away down the narrow rim of rock surrounding the black lake. Regulus can only stumble away with Harry as a pair of Inferi swarm up around their boat, rocking it violently and trying to drag it under. Regulus wants to burn them to pieces, but he can reluctantly recognize that flight is a far more intelligent option at the moment than fight.

As Harry drags him around the edge of the lake, Regulus' saviour again intones for fire and a continuous jet of flame bursts from the tip of his wand. Not quite as massive as before, but just as hot. Harry sweeps the fire over the surface of the black lake, back and forth, as they stumble forward, an efficient deterrent to the misshapen corpses that had been floating up towards them.

The Inferi in the dark waters cower away again, slipping back into the depths almost gratefully, and do not try to rise again. The warning flames, being spewed almost casually from Harry's wand as they move along, let the two of them stagger along the water's edge without any Inferi daring to resurface anywhere near them. Their Transfigured boat, now gone beneath the black waters under a press of bodies, is not as lucky, but they are unbothered.

Harry guides them back around the lake, bearing most of Regulus' weight, and they don't speak. Harry seems focused on supporting Regulus and keeping the Inferi back, and Regulus puts most of his strength into walking and breathing and not falling on his face. There are spots in his vision again, his head aches like he really did steal his mother's sherry stash and become some lush housewitch, and he doesn't need to be embarrassed anymore by fainting on top of that.

“Almost there,” Harry murmurs softly, with a note of anxiety in his voice that Regulus would hazily place as concern. “Save your energy. … We'll soon be out of here. …” He repeats a litany of assurances that don't sound purely for Regulus' benefit, over and over again. “We're nearly there. … It's going to be all right.”

Regulus nods, or tries to nod at least, and stumbles along. Some way or another, they reach the exit, the resealed archway opens for them, and they cross the outer cave – Regulus feels the heat leave, sees Harry fumble with something, and knows he's more or less being carried, but he's not really paying attention beyond that. Busy trying to shake the imagines of Inferi creeping towards him out of his head, he doesn't really return to consciousness until Harry practically dumps them both into the icy seawater that fills the cliff crevice.

“ _Sugar Quills!_ ”

“....What?” says Harry after a few moments, sounding somewhere between bewildered and bemused.

Regulus, now very much awake as Harry pulls them both towards the open sky, realizes what he's just said and feels his face burn slightly despite the freezing water. He also realizes that there's no way to explain this that _isn't_ horrible embarrassing and the only way forward is to act as though everything is entirely normal.

“It's _cold,_ ” Regulus hisses angrily, awkwardly trying to help swim but infuriatingly not quite capable of it. He probably hinders Harry's motions more than anything.

It's all awful. His headache is still somewhere in the back of his head, his limbs are sluggish enough that it's a miracle he's keeping hold of his wand, his robes are heavy and restricting. He feels like a drowned cat that's going to freeze to death, being tugged along by the scruff of his neck. This is possibly the most embarrassing and shameful day of his entire life, and it may actually be the death of him, as was apparently supposed to happen today because of his own arrogance and stupidity.

“Well, you let old Tom know to put his next Horcrux somewhere in the tropics, then, yeah?” Harry answers, green eyes bright and sounding remarkably good-humoured again. Holding Regulus up with one arm, he slaps the other onto the boulder they've reached and starts to heave them up.

Regulus attempts to assist still, but he's physically pretty useless at the moment, and Harry has rendered most of his mental state nearly useless too. His _'next'_ Horcrux? _Multiple_ Horcruxes? That has to be a terrible joke, right? Only the result of being raised by Sirius and his awful friends and their tasteless sense of humour? It was said as a joke, but... just... the _concept_ of _multiple_ Horcruxes?

Harry pulls them up onto the rock, as far away from the ocean spray as he can manage, then yanks them both to their feet with a tired groan. There's a bit of swaying and near overbalancing, but it's managed in the end. They stand there for a moment, sodden and shivering under the night sky, Regulus' face nearly in Harry neck, and he couldn't even really bring himself to care about the embarrassment at being useless and reliant, because _warmth._

Before Regulus can even demand it, Harry raises his wand and suddenly they're both dry and blissfully warm. It's such a relief that Regulus might have cried if not for how Blacks did not cry, and it's so comfortable that falling asleep standing up sounds like an oddly appealing option at the moment. He can't ever remember being so tired, but his head aches and his mind is racing with all the possibilities and potential of tomorrow.

Harry knows enough for his claims of time travel to sound legitimate, even though Regulus has never heard of anyone travelling nearly twenty years before. Harry knows too much and doesn't show any signs of lying, and if this is true, then the information he has will be priceless. Even if the only useful thing Harry knows is how to destroy that terrible locket, that's still dragging the Dark Lord back down his supposed path towards mortality again and priceless in itself.

Regulus is going to get every last bit of useful information out of this youth if it's the last thing he does, and cooperating fully seems to be working fairly well so far. And if this is some massive hoax, then he'll need to be in a position to protect his family.

Regulus owes Harry a Life Debt now, though. Having a Life Debt to someone is annoying and shameful, but although Regulus is easily a thief and a liar, he's not dishonourable. He's a Black of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, bound by the traditions of true magical society that are being destroyed day by day, and he won't back out of paying his debt. So long as Harry's actions were enough to invoke a Life Debt, of course.

“I can Apparate us both somewhere safe now,” Harry says.

Regulus' eyes are snapping open before he's even realized they were closed. “Somewhere unimportant and unpopulated first,” he insists, pulling back to try and retain some dignity and nearly falling backwards before Harry catches him. Morgana, today is really not going well for him and dignity; at this rate, his mother is just going to somehow sense the disgrace he's being and try to disown him on principle before she remembers she can't.

“We can't leave a direct trail to follow,” he says once he's mostly righted himself, mentally cursing the heat in his face that is definitely and undeniably because of the Warming Charm. “Multiple Apparations and random movement will make us more difficult to trace.” He's met witches and wizards twice his age who haven't learn this lesson yet; one would think the current times would encourage a healthy sense of paranoia and caution.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Alright, then,” he says agreeably, “hold on.”

Even only having known Harry for less than an hour – James Potter and Lily Evans' son, Sirius' godson, wearer of horrible glasses and terrible Muggle clothes, possessor of good-humour and many comebacks, defeater of Inferi, concerned saviour and dispenser of Warming Charms – Regulus thinks there are worse people to owe a Life Debt to.

Yeah, his luck definitely could've been worse today.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we'll have some story from Harry's POV next.


	4. Any Direction You Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only person Harry has at the moment is someone who he's never met before, should probably be dead, and has the Dark Mark on his left arm. All of which are not terribly comforting thoughts.

Harry obliges and takes them to the Forest of Dean. It's in the middle of nowhere, unpopulated, and random to everyone except... well... just Harry, now, so it seems.

He cheers himself up with the secret significance of the place he'd chosen: the muddy bank of a chilly pond, dark and deserted, where he and Ron finally destroyed the real locket together.

He misses Ron. So badly that it feels like a stomachache when he thinks about it for too long. He misses Hermione too, just as badly, even though it's only been three days since he'd last seen them and walked off to die. He can't help but think that everything would somehow be better – less confusing, less impossible – if they were here by his side now, or he were still by theirs. Hermione would have known at least something about all this, and started researching the rest immediately, and Ron would have been able to come up with a plan for them for the meanwhile. At the very least Ron would be lightening the mood and keeping company – balancing Harry's tendency to be lonesome and Hermione's to be stressed – while they figured this out.

But they aren't here, and it makes his insides twist to think he might not see them again. The only person Harry has at the moment is someone who he's never met before, should probably be dead, and has the Dark Mark on his left arm. All of which are not terribly comforting thoughts.

Regulus pulls away from him slightly, still swaying like he celebrated a Quidditch victory a bit too hard, and looks around the forest with either a vaguely sick expression or a disdainful one.

Harry saw the pictures of Regulus before, but he was still entirely unprepared for someone who looks his own age. Someone who looks like they should be in their seventh year of Hogwarts – Slytherin, definitely, with that calculating look and unconscious sneer - instead of a Death Eater. Somehow, he'd always pictured Regulus Black as... older than the photographs, even knowing in his head that Sirius' brother had only been eighteen when he'd died.

Regulus Arcturus Black is a couple inches taller than Harry, and leaner than his black robes make him look. Harry still thinks him less handsome than Sirius, but he's still pretty good-looking, despite the ill-look he's sporting at the moment. In a haughty sort of way that gives Harry an unfortunate view up his nose sometimes and reminds him of pureblood sneers. He's definitely Sirius' brother, and definitely a Black.

Regulus has the same fair skin and grey eyes as Sirius, but his eyes are more watchful than striking, more wary than bright. He has a difference scattering of moles over his skin too. Regulus doesn't have any of that casual elegance that Harry remembers from a young Sirius either, at least or especially not at the moment, too controlled and stressed in his appearance and body language. Like comparing Percy to Bill, almost. Regulus' long black hair is even tightly pulled back in a ponytail at his neck and down his back, oddly neat for someone who just nearly died. It's very different to Sirius' wild (or sometimes haggard) curls; Harry guesses it must be charmed somehow.

“We should walk some before we Apparate again,” Regulus informs him, in his somewhat bland and still hoarse voice. Like someone took Sirius' voice and made him a lot quieter.

Then Sirius' brother tries to step away down the bank and nearly falls on his face again. He's saved by Harry, again, who was prepared for it.

Harry doesn't know why the guy keeps trying to walk on his own when he clearly can't, but he doubts that much good will come of pointing it out. Regulus seems smart – in that mind-works-scarily-quick way Hermione is, or maybe that leaps-of-common-knowledge-and-logic way Ron is – by his intuitive guesses so far. And Harry knows that pointing out a limit to a perfectly intelligent person, who is trying to pass them while pretending they aren't there, isn't a great idea. Regulus doesn't have a sleek hair out of place, but Harry has a feeling like the one a person got from slowly watching Hermione's hair get frizzy from a mix of competitive determination and unreasonable stress, or seeing any Weasley's ears slowly turn red while trying to complete an uncooperative task.

So Harry just slings Regulus' arm over his shoulders again and offers the poor guy a good out. “Sorry about that,” he lies easily. “Sometimes my Side-Along's a little wobbly.” He's actually pretty great at it after so long on the run, but that doesn't matter. “Are you alright there?”

“'M'fine,” Regulus mumbles back, shifting his weight unnecessarily.

“Right then!” Harry says, slightly awkwardly, and then he immediately runs out of things to say and so just shuts up entirely while they stagger around the edges of the pond's bank.

The Forest of Dean is eerily quiet in the night, lacking the sharp reek of seawater and the crash and splash of the waves, instead having the faint rustle of tree leaves and the occasional animal sound off in the distance. But it's definitely the water and darkness that are the worst. Harry can't look anywhere without seeing flashes of corpses crawling out from behind the trees or beneath the pond surface, seeing dark shapes moving out of the corner of his eye, thinking that there might be hands reaching out towards his ankle while he's not looking. He had this the last time too, and at least knows it'll pass now.

Harry stops walking, pulling Regulus to a stop. “Is here fine?” he asks tightly, as he stares at the tree that Severus Snape stood behind to summon his doe Patronus and deliver the Sword of Gryffindor. The man is dead now, three days ago too, and Harry has yet to figure out how he feels that. About it all. About all the silvery memories swimming in his head and in front of his eyes.

_(“Everything was supposed to keep Lily Potter's son safe. … Now... now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter...”)_

“Here's fine,” Regulus agrees, looking at him consideringly.

Harry wonders if the man...? Boy? Teenager doesn't sound quite right, but man isn't exactly true for either of them and 'boy' seems too sad and unfitting. Whatever they are, Harry wonders if Regulus can feel his heart pounding in his chest, see the memories running behind his eyes, or hear the words that Harry hasn't been able to get out of his head since he heard them.

_(“You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?”)_

It was supposed to be painless. It was supposed to have been quicker and easier than falling asleep. His job was to walk calmly into Death's welcoming arms, disposing of Voldemort's remaining links to life, and he had done it with his parents by his side, eyes up and unflinching, terror in his throat, full of so many if-onlys and realizations, and with a funeral drum pounding away inside his chest. One last sacrifice, all his life and future and stolen opportunities given up freely, as had apparently always been intended. As was necessary.

_(- and Harry thought inexplicably of Ginny, and her blazing look, and the feel of her lips on his-)_

So why did he wake up?

“Hold on,” Harry says grimly, looking at that damn tree one last time. Then he mentally reaches out to swirl them away, away from all the memories that make this place feel like a too-real dream. Or maybe makes this place making his memories feel like a too-real dream.

He... he did wake up... right?

 

Harry takes them out to the countryside again, through the unpleasant compression of Apparation. This time, they stumble out of the air onto the top of Stoatshead Hill. Regulus makes a muted groaning sound between relief and pain, and Harry quickly sits them both down before Regulus doesn't give them a choice. He's not that heavy, but he's awkward and not exactly light either.

“We need to Apparate at least once more,” Regulus immediately insists, even though he looks about a second away from vomitting slugs and five away from the effects of a Fainting Fancy. He looks around the hilltop while Harry stands without him. “This _cannot_ be your 'safe place'.”

Harry stretches his arms and back, because carrying another person is giving him a crick in them, and nearly snorts at Regulus' disdainful look at the empty, peaceful countryside around them. He's finally figured out who Regulus is reminding him of slightly. Regulus looks like _Draco,_ except also with Sirius' features, which inspires a lot of odd thoughts of what Malfoy would do if given the truth and chance to betray Voldemort as badly as Regulus has. Harry's not quite sure about what Draco would do now.

“I know, but I'm still not a broomstick,” Harry replies as he looks around, almost expecting to see an old boot sitting on the same rock as before, ready to whisk people away to the Quidditch World Cup. It's not there. Ridiculous to expect, but still disappointing somehow. “Give me a minute.”

Harry thinks he hears a _tsk_ sort of sound as he looks away, but there's no arguing. Even though Harry's pretty decent at Side-Along, there's that potion mess too, and the ill-looking guy is probably glad for a short break from Apparating and stumbling. Harry really does need a minute to stretch, and he doesn't want Regulus to pass out on him before they've gotten to Harry's little hide-out.

This place, despite Regulus' obvious disdain, is pretty close to 'safe place' in Harry's mind. There are good memories here, happy ones, and he can even see the lights of Ottery St. Catchpole in the distance while atop this steep hill. Not too far a walk away from here is the Burrow, one of the several places Harry's been considering going to over the past few days.

The thought and closeness to Weasleys doesn't help the ache in Harry's stomach and chest at all, though. Because they won't know him, and he doesn't have a clue what to say to them. The truth would be best, but the truth is something like, _'I'm your unborn son's best friend and unborn daughter's ex-boyfriend from the future. You're the closest thing I've ever had to parents and a family.'_ Somehow, he can't exactly see that turning out well.

He did the math. It's November of 1979 right now and Ron was born on the first of March in 1980. Mrs. Weasley is _pregnant_ with Harry's best friend _right now._ It's almost as strange a thought as the idea that there is a two-month-old Hermione Granger somewhere out there at this very moment.

Harry knows all the Weasley birthdays and ages by sheer proximity to the family for so long. The twins aren't even two (and Fred is _alive_ ), Percy is three, Charlie is turning seven soon, and Bill is turning nine. (Harry can't picture the eldest Weasley as anything but an adult, and not without Fleur, who's like... two or three right now?) Mr and Mrs. Weasley are... only twenty-nine and thirty years old respectively, he thinks. And Ginny hasn't even been... well, anything yet.

It's all weird enough that Harry is extremely uncomfortable going anywhere near them, especially with Regulus Black in tow now. He's keeping them as option, though, in case he gets desperate or courageous enough to face them. The Weasleys are a route straight to the Order of the Phoenix – and Dumbledore, whom Harry can't decide if he wants to face or not – after all, so he'll keep the Burrow in mind.

This place is peaceful enough to soothe some of Harry's Inferi fears, just by watching the lights of houses glow comfortably and safely in the rolling hills. There are probably Lovegoods out there too, he realizes, although without Luna, who would be his main reason to see them. And the memories of this hilltop remind him that the Diggory family is somewhere out there too. Cedric Diggory is alive out there, probably about two years old, when to Harry he's about three years dead at seventeen.

Harry's parents are out there somewhere too.

As soon as Harry realized that if he'd actually somehow come back in time to 1979, his parents would be alive, he went immediately to Godric's Hollow. It was thoughtless and desperate, but Harry couldn't resist the possibility of seeing James Potter and Lily Evans alive and young and _alive._

They weren't there, which was disappointing, but the monument to the Potters wasn't there either. The cottage was empty and perfectly intact, without anyone living there but without anyone having died there either, simply warded and without any scratches on the gate to the Boy-Who-Lived. Standing in the graveyard of Godric's Hollow, looking at the places where his parents' graves should be, had really hammered in his current situation. Harry had mostly been stumbling around in a daze before then.

Sirius is alive out there too. So is Remus. So are a lot of people, but his parents and the Marauders are the important ones to him. The main problem with that is that he doesn't know where to find any of them. Discovering how little he knew about his parents' and godfather's lives was a little shocking actually. He only really knows they'd been members of the Order of the Phoenix after school, and he knows that he won't find that at Grimmauld Place right now.

Most paths Harry can see to finding the Order of the Phoenix and therefore his parents, such as walking up or sneaking in to Hogwarts, lead to Dumbledore in some way or another. Harry isn't sure he wants to see the old man at the moment – after walking to his death on Dumbledore's plan and somehow _not dying._ Especially a Headmaster who can't give him any answers – any apologies – any explanations as to why he'd done _any_ of the things he'd done over Harry's lifetime.

_(“We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength. Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth. … Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself.”)_

Harry's grip around his wand tightens at the memory – the shock - the feelings of betrayal.

The unfamiliar texture of the wand reminds of him of another reason he's uncertain about seeing Dumbledore right now.

He looks down at the wand in his hand, the Elder Wand, which he last remembers being in Voldemort's hand _killing him._ His current possession of it is something he still can't really explain to himself. Did he somehow steal it from Voldemort there? Or from Dumbledore now? He's glad he has it, because he really needed a wand, but... How does he have it?

Dumbledore might be able to explain how. Along with how Harry's being here seems to be somehow connected to the Hallows - and his being the Master of Death, if Harry's worked out the wand's path right. But the old Headmaster might not know at all, and... Harry just can't face the man right now. At least not yet.

_(“If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort.”)_

But Harry didn't see to the end of Voldemort. He failed to get rid of all the Horcruxes. He left the responsibilities Dumbledore left him in the hands of Neville, of Ron and Hermione, of people who needed him and were expecting things of him, and walked to his death. He left them – left _everyone –_ behind entirely, and he's in a world where they either don't exist or don't even know him, and when he really should be dead at that.

Harry turns away from the little village of Ottery St. Catchpole and walks back over to Regulus, who looks slightly better now. The guy still looks abnormally pale and definitely ill, but he doesn't look a second away from a Skirving Snackbox effect now.

“Ready to move?” Harry asks, holding out his hand for Regulus to take.

Regulus looks up at him, and Harry still can't get over how much he both does and doesn't look like Sirius. Regulus looks like a lot of people honestly, being a Black, and it's just strange meeting an eighteen-year-old Death Eater who would have died earlier today if not for him. Saving Regulus was a very last-minute sort of thing, and Harry doesn't really know what they're going to do now.

It changes things, to say the least.

 

 


	5. Safe to Step Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry again pulls them away into the compressed space of Apparition, and they finally stumble out of the air to their final destination.

“Yes,” Regulus replies, reaching up with his non-wand hand and taking Harry's.

Harry pulls the guy up and throws Regulus' arm over his shoulder again, and they start a slow trek down Stoatshead Hill. Slow because Regulus is still awkward and stumbling, Harry is starting to get tired, and it's quite dark out. Harry doesn't want to trip over a tuft of grass and go tumbling down the steep hill, or, more likely, get pulled down the hill if Regulus trips.

It'd be pretty depressing if they both survived near-certain death only to break their necks while trying to walk down a hill. Sad like a pair of tipsy upper-years trying to navigate the moving staircases after a Hogsmeade visit or Quidditch afterparty, only without any professors to rescue them and prevent any fatal consequences. Unless glares or detention suddenly become fatal, at least.

Once they're at the bottom of the hill, Harry gives a brief warning and whisks them away to another familiar, empty place. This should probably be the last time before Harry's safe place, because Harry doesn't think either of them have the energy to do this all night. Even twice seems to be pushing the paranoia in Harry's books, although old Mad-Eye (who's alive and probably at the height of Auror days right now) would probably approve whole-heartedly.

Regulus raises his head and looks around, fixating on the very recognizable building in front of them. “The Shrieking Shack,” he says dully, sounding more unimpressed than anyone has ever sounded unimpressed. “Is there some part of _unimportant and unpopulated_ that's difficult to understand?”

“No,” Harry answers, sharper than he means to, “but there's _no one here._ We can walk into Hogsmeade and Apparate out without being seen, and it's bloody hard to find a Bowtruckle in a bunch of twigs. I'm not doing this all night.”

Regulus stares at him, then relents with grudging acceptance. “Fine,” he says, regally enough that it's tempting to dump him on his arse. “Apparating from an area with frequent traffic will make the trail extremely difficult to trace. But we still cannot be seen.”

Harry's temper, which had risen immediately at Regulus' first sentence, cools as he notices the muted urgency and realizes that it's the being seen thing that Regulus is worried about. Regulus doesn't have to be an arse about it, but it's pretty understandable considering his situation. After various interactions with the public as the Boy-Who-Lived and months as the Undesirable Number One, Harry gets the not wanting to be seen thing.

It's a little ( _very_ ) weird to think that Harry won't be immediately recognized everywhere he goes as Harry Potter – Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, and Undesirable Number One. He'll probably be mistaken for his dad, actually, especially in Hogsmeade, which probably saw a lot of James Potter if Madam Rosmerta remember him and Sirius so well. Another weird thought is that since Harry's got Regulus at the moment, they'll probably be together mistaken for _'quite the double act'_ James Potter and Sirius Black.

Hmm, maybe Harry will be able to hit up Hogsmeade later for information on his parents or the Marauders. (He's not counting Peter Pettigrew there. Harry doesn't know what he'll do if he sees that rat. Still trying to figure that out. It probably won't be good for anyone.)

The Hog's Head and Aberforth Dumbledore are a decent possibility. Aberforth is a member of the Order, after all. The barkeeper would probably call him crazy for his story, but might at least give him a place to stay and might contact the Potters for him if Harry was convincing enough to beat the man's innate suspicion. But the main downside is that Harry's pretty sure that particular path will most likely lead to the Dumbledore that he doesn't want to see instead of his parents.

Right now, he's actually hoping that Regulus will know where to find his brother. He doesn't know what the guy he's half-carrying will want to do after they get somewhere safe – and probably sleep off their mutual near-death – but he's hoping that Regulus will be an ally of sorts here. The guy wants to see Voldemort dead, after all, Kreacher likes him (which isn't exactly a glowing recommendation, but still), and he's kind of funny, so he can't be that bad.

There's also the possibility that saving Regulus Black will get Harry some answers as to how he ended up in 1979 instead of dead. It was strongly implied that saving Regulus was somehow important – something he was meant to do and had to do – so Harry's hoping that cooperation will get him a third appearance from this uncooperative, mysterious, possibly invisible person who refuses to appear on demand and won't bloody speak when bloody spoken to.

They make it all the way to the outskirts of Hogsmeade together, keeping behind the buildings and out-of-sight instead of going down the familiar, well-lit main street. The village is not darkened even in the night, not deathly quiet, and not half-closed down. Lively instead of forcibly subdued. Harry aches to step into some of those shops again, almost as much as he wants to follow the road down to the home that was only days ago under attack – to see it whole, unharmed. Harry can hear people still wandering about the village, even at this time of night. Especially drunks talking too loudly or cussing at the autumn chill as they stumble out of the Three Broomsticks or shuffle out of the Hog's Head. It's so very different from Caterwauling Charms and Dementors and Death Eaters enforcing curfew. Harry's heart soars to see it.

Regulus, on the other hand, goes uncomfortably tense at the first signs of other people, almost like he got hit with a Body-Bind. Harry has to practically drag the guy along the wall of houses on the outer skirts, and then actually drag Regulus into the actual village. Harry only pulls them into an alley between two buildings, barely enough for a single person, but Regulus demands in a hiss that they Apparate out just a couple steps into it. Harry agrees, because there's no point in risking being seen by going farther, and also, Regulus is probably going to choke him or keel over from stress if he tries to take another step.

Harry again pulls them away into the compressed space of Apparation, and they finally stumble out of the air to their final destination. From fresh air and evening village sounds, here has the muted blare of city traffic and the homely cigarette-stink of a rented room. It's a tiny, dark space with little more than a window, a dresser, a table and lamp, and a bed.

It's not quite clear if Harry pushes or Regulus pulls away on his own, but Regulus immediately drops down on the bed. _Flop_ might be the better word for it, honestly. Harry finds himself looking down at Regulus lying face-down on the bed, mildly bemused, and nudges the Black to make some room. Regulus rolls over to the other side, onto his back, and Harry plops down on the freed side, puts the Elder Wand on the bedside table, and starts unlacing his trainers.

“What is this place?” Regulus demands, wand clutched to his chest, nose wrinkled in disgust at whatever he's seeing on the ceiling. Probably mould, unless it's somehow moved since this morning.

“Motel, outskirts of London,” Harry answers.

He tosses his beaten shoes into a corner and starts stretching his crick-filled arms and back again. Regulus is heavier than he looks for a skinny bloke. Lots of elbows and edges too. And Harry is feeling all those aches that were swept away in the moment, like banging his shins and knees against the boat. And then there's just the sheer exertion of rescuing Regulus and carrying him to this little sanctuary Harry's found for himself.

Close to Diagon Alley, close to the Ministry, close to Grimmauld Place, and crowded enough that no one noticed a homeless-looking teenager joining the fray. Harry knew how to get about and no one paid him any notice. The most anyone probably thought of him was _recent runaway_ or _bloke who needs a roof over his head 'til he finds another place._ No money? No problem, not with a Confundus Charm at the wandtip and the rationalization that it was either this, steal, confront people he wasn't ready to confront, or sleep on a park bench somewhere. It was a roof over his head while he explored and tried to sort his own head out.

“Is this place a _Muggle_ establishment?” Regulus demands, sounding utterly disgusted, and Harry is suddenly reminded that Regulus is a) a pureblood, b) a Black, c) a Slytherin, and d) a _Death Eater._

“ _Yes,_ ” Harry answers forcefully, reaching for the Elder Wand again and glaring over his shoulder. “I didn't exactly appear with a pocketful of Galleons and plan to have company. D'you have a five-star hotel to live it up in while everybody thinks you're dead?”

Regulus had been glaring back slightly, but then his expression shifts to something almost... pained again. In a muted sort of way. Like when Harry revealed that Regulus should have died back in that cave and the locket wasn't destroyed for years, or when Harry revealed that Sirius had been killed and left everything to his godson. Harry immediately feels slightly guilty for snapping, because this hasn't exactly been a great day for Regulus and for all Harry knows, he's projecting the Malfoy-like, hateful sneer onto Regulus' words. It was just a question, and this place is pretty filthy.

“...No,” Regulus answers quietly, staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

Yeah, now Harry feels like a bit of a git. “Sorry, it's just... this place is temporary,” he explains, “until I figure some stuff out.” Find his parents, face Dumbledore, figure out what happened to him and why he's here instead of dead. He doesn't even know if the part of him that's been tethering Voldemort to life is gone, or how that even works into his current situation.

_(“In the case of Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of one is to speak of the other.”)_

It's just... he's a bit of a mess at the moment. Considering everything, it's actually fairly impressive that he managed to save Regulus at all – and with such a sudden, last-minute reminder, too. They should probably both be dead at the moment. Harry twice over. Thrice over, if he counted the beginning of all that Boy-Who-Lived rubbish.

“You said that you were all for continuing the conversation earlier,” Regulus said, very carefully casual. “Now that we're... out of that cave...”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees immediately, because he could use a distraction. Maybe a little too quickly, by Regulus' curious look. “Um... where were we?”

Regulus tries to sit up, but can't quite manage it and ends up pretending he didn't try. “The locket,” he says finally, keeping his eyes fixed intensely on the ceiling. “It was eventually destroyed. When? And how?”

“Uh... around Christmas,” Harry answers, taking a moment to think about it. With all those months camping and on the run, exact dates tended to get lost. “1997,” he specifies, which is still terribly strange. “Using the Sword of Godric Gryffindor.”

Regulus stares at him, looking very bewildered. “The Sword... of Godric Gryffindor,” he repeats dully.

“Yeah.”

“...The _Sword_ of Godric _Gryffindor._ ”

“It's goblin-made,” Harry explains, shifting so he's leaning against the headboard instead of sitting precariously on the edge of the bed. “Goblin-made items only imbibe what makes them stronger, and basilisk venom destroys Horcruxes, so when it was used to kill the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, it gained the ability to destroy them too.”

Regulus just keeps staring at him. “Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. … That's _true?”_

“Yeah, but it won't work now, since it hasn't happened yet,” Harry realizes, and groans. There goes the safest and most convenient way of killing Horcruxes. “Unless someone wants to head down to the Chamber and try basilisk-slaying.” He grimaces. “Personally, wouldn't recommend it.”

There's a brief silence for awhile, long enough that Harry looks down at Regulus next to him instead of staring at the wall. Regulus sort of looks like someone slipped a funny potion into his pumpkin juice, somewhere between stunned and ill.

“Fiendfyre will also do it,” Harry continues, watching Regulus curiously, “but I personally wouldn't recommend it either. … You alright?”

“...Fine.”

“You sure?”

Regulus waves his non-wand hand, which mainly consists of weakly flopping it about. “Oh, just attempting to reconcile the fact that the Chamber of Secrets is real, contains a basilisk, and that you apparently killed it with the Sword of Godric Gryffindor.”

“...I never said it was me,” Harry protests awkwardly. Now that it's been said all at once like that, it does seem somewhat ridiculous. It made perfect sense in context, though.

“Not directly,” Regulus answers, looking more bemused now instead of bewildered as he eyes Harry.

Harry is suddenly reminded of how Regulus immediately locked on to the fact that Harry could have only heard the full story of the locket's theft from Kreacher, and how Harry had carried someone from that horrible cave once before. At the moment, Regulus seems very much like Sirius (at his best, not the tired, gaunt worst of an Azkaban escapee), instead of how he's so far seemed very different. All knowingness and amusement and sharp grey eyes, at the moment.

The inexplicable urge to tell Regulus to shut up is strong, but Harry represses it and stares at the wall some more for strength. But instead, he ends up briefly recalling – reliving – one of the most terrifying moments of his life.

“Yeah, well... personally wouldn't recommend it,” he repeats.

Filthy, wet stone and cold, dark tunnels, lungs heaving desperately and heart pumping wildly, a gleaming, ruby-hilted blade too big for small, dirty hands, and a massive, bloody, starving monster narrating its hunger and desire to kill all the while. Mouth big enough to swallow him whole, fangs almost as long as his thin arms, bleeding wounds for eyes. A tiny, pale girl with fiery hair dying slowly, an unreal boy's ruthless urging and mocking laughter, and the black, burning agony of his body being destroyed from the inside and the hateful determination to do _something_ in his last moments to make the fight, sweat, and pain worth _something._

It's horrifying to think that all that's waiting again, out there, for someone to face. He doesn't want to face that again, even though someone will need to to re-imbue the sword with basilisk venom. Someone will need to, but... he's not sure he can.

“The locket needs to be destroyed beyond all repair,” Harry says. “Basilisk venom will do it. So will Fiendfyre. I don't know any other ways to destroy Horcruxes.” Then he corrects himself. “I think the Killing Curse does it for living ones. I'm not sure.”

The silence in that moment is the same as that before a priceless piece of porcelain shatters.

“ _Living ones_?” Regulus demands, sounding disbelieving and disgusted and just... _horrified._ When Harry looks at him, the Black's eyes are wide and he's paler than before and he's staring at Harry with an indescribable expression.

No, not Harry... he's staring at Harry's forehead. At the _scar._

“...What?” Harry asks warily.

Regulus still has his eyes fixed on the scar, still so absolutely disbelieving and horrified, then he looks at Harry again. “How many Horcruxes _are_ there?” he demands, eyes flicking up to Harry's scar again before back to his face. “He made more than _one?_ Great Morgana, _why?”_

Harry wants to demand what Regulus is thinking in regards to his scar and living Horcruxes, because the staring somehow hits too damn close to the mark for someone who doesn't have all that much information. At least, to Harry's knowledge. And Harry doesn't really want to talk about it all yet – he never even told Ron and Hermione before he walked off to die – and he's still trying to figure out what's going on right now himself.

“He was trying to make seven,” Harry explains, “because-”

“Seven is the most magical number,” Regulus interrupts, still wide-eyed. “He made _seven?”_

Harry frowns. “Yeah, eventually, but right now he only has five,” he answers, listing them on his fingers with the Elder Wand to keep track. “The locket is one. Then there's Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's lost diadem, the Gaunt Family ring, and the diary.” Then he asks, because he's been wondering for awhile, “Is seven really the most magical number?”

Regulus is in the middle of demanding, with no small amount of horror and confusion, “Diary?” but then frowns and says, “...It really depends on the numerical system being used. … What diary? Do you know where to find each one? And in this current time?”

Harry almost snorts, because Regulus definitely doesn't have a problem asking questions. “Tom Riddle's Diary,” he explains. “He kept a diary at Hogwarts and turned it into a Horcrux when he was sixteen. Using Myrtle's death, I think. I don't know.”

“...Moaning Myrtle?”

“Yeah.”

“...His diary when he was sixteen?”

Harry bites his lip to keep from laughing at the expression on Regulus' face right now. When he was twelve, it was very magical and terrifying, but Regulus' tone makes it just sound ridiculous. It is kind of ridiculous, the diary among so many meaningful artefacts. “Yeah.”

Regulus glares tiredly at him. “You're messing with me.”

Harry laughs. “No! No, I swear I'm not! It's true!”

“Says the laughing broomstick,” Regulus deadpans.

That just makes Harry laugh even harder, though he's trying to stop. It's not really that funny, but it's probably either laugh or cry right now. “No! I'm not lying, it's true!” he insists. “He's really just that egotistical. … Here, look.”

Harry raises the Elder Wand and recreates the trick that was so very terrifying and shocking when he was twelve years old. In flaming letters, he writes the name _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ in the air. Regulus has to shift slightly to get a good look, which doesn't seem easy for him considering how very tired he's looking. He seems more interested than sceptical.

“His real name,” Harry says, then waves his wand and waits for the letters to rearrange themselves into the anagram that horrified a twelve-year-old boy: _I am Lord Voldemort._ Then he looks expectantly towards Regulus, who has his non-wand arm thrown over his eyes in the perfect picture of utter despair.

“...I can't believe I didn't see that.”

 


	6. What Next? What Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you plan to do?” Regulus asks. “With your knowledge? … With this... chance?”

Harry snorts, shrugs, and banishes the fiery letters. “I didn't see it either, not 'til I was shown.”

Regulus makes another _tsk_ sound but is otherwise silent. He's either thinking something over or still despairing over how he didn't notice Voldemort's teenage anagram, and Harry leaves him be for the moment. Harry has enough to think over himself, including what he's doing now, what he's going to do next, and how Regulus fits into his haphazard picture of tomorrow's actions.

“So, uh, what are you gonna do now?” Harry asks. Because if Regulus managed to steal the locket, even if he didn't know how to destroy it, then he probably had _some_ plan for afterwards. It seems sort of strange to think they might just... part ways here, just... considering things.

Regulus removes his arm from his face, expression bland and eyes sharp again. “I think most of my plans have become rather obsolete,” he says dryly. “You... you said that no one knew where I disappeared to? Even Kreacher thinks I'm dead?”

Harry nods, slightly awkwardly, because now that he thinks about it... no one knows. Walburga Black died without knowing what happened to her younger son. Sirius thought that his younger brother had just gotten himself killed trying to pull back after getting in too deep. Even Voldemort had never learned of Regulus' betrayal, Harry's fairly certain, not since Harry and Dumbledore had taken the fake locket from the cave, and therefore the incriminating note as well.

Harry doesn't mention any of that, though, because Regulus looks quietly pained again, even though his eyes stay fixed on Harry this time.

“What do _you_ plan to do?” Regulus asks. “With your knowledge? … With this... chance?”

_(Now he saw that his life span had always been determined by long it took to eliminate all the Horcruxes. Dumbledore had passed the job of destroying them to him, and obediently he had continued to chip away at the bonds tying not only Voldemort, but himself, to life!)_

Harry leans his head back against the headboard. “...I don't know,” he answers honestly.

_(How neat, how elegant, not to waste any more lives, but to give the dangerous task to the boy who already been marked for slaughter, and whose death would not be a calamity, but another blow against Voldemort.)_

Regulus blinks, clearly taken aback. “You... don't know.”

( _Like rain on a cold window, these thoughts pattered against the hard surface of the incontrovertible truth, which was that he must do.)_

Harry draws his knees closer to his chest, tapping the Elder Wand against the bedspread, keeping his eyes on it instead of looking to the fellow dead man beside him.

_(I must die.)_

“No,” he says. Because he doesn't.

He knows what he _wants_ to do – he wants to find his parents, find Sirius, find Remus, and all the people who died for him who shouldn't have had to – but he doesn't know what he _should_ do. No... that's a lie, he knows what he _should_ do. He should continue his task of making Voldemort mortal, and prevent so many terrible things from happening. Continue the fight he tried to die for.

_(It must end.)_

He just doesn't want to.

People aren't meant to survive the Avada Kedavra. People aren't meant to meddle with time. Harry seems to be the exception and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't really have any plans. He just wants an explanation for once.

But that's never happening.

Harry looks at Regulus again, to find an interesting mix of muted expressions crossing his face. Confusion and frustration are there, but with more consideration than anything else. It turns to expectation pretty quickly, as Regulus stares back, waiting.

“Before... before I was... reminded about you,” Harry volunteers awkwardly, “I was trying to find my parents... or Sirius. … I don't know where they are... right now. I know they're a part of the Order, but I'm kinda trying to avoid... someone who's a part of it.”

“A traitor?” Regulus asks quietly.

Harry shakes his head. “No,” he answers, because Dumbledore was never a traitor. Not to the Order, at least; not to the greater good. Then he remembers Peter Pettigrew, a bad person to encounter for a number of reasons. “Well, there's a traitor I should probably avoid, too.”

“...May I ask who?”

Well... it probably won't hurt. “Uhm, Peter Pettigrew, for the traitor thing.”

Regulus looks startled, actually genuinely surprised. “ _Pettigrew?”_

Harry scowls at the reminder that _no one_ suspected the rat – too weak, too cowardly – until it was far too late. “Yeah.” Harry doesn't think he'll be able to keep himself from cursing Pettigrew. Who knew how many secrets the rat had betrayed to Voldemort before Harry's parents?

“... _Pettigrew,_ ” Regulus repeats disbelievingly, before pulling himself together again. “And the other?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Albus Dumbledore, but... for personal reasons.”

Regulus studies him for a moment. “Fine,” he says, then comments after a pause, “It's highly unlikely you'll be able to make contact with _any_ members of the Order of the Phoenix without eventually attracting his interest.”

“I know.”

“And when you've found your parents, what then?”

Harry shrugs, something that has to be forced through the iron tension in his shoulders. “Tell the truth, I guess. Tell them about the future, things that're gonna happen, about Horcruxes. Figure things out from there.” He's making this up as he goes along, really. At first he just wanted to see them, but... he could actually meet them, couldn't he?

It's an oddly terrifying thought. Exciting, of course, but terrifying.

“I was actually hoping that you might know where to find Sirius,” Harry says, trying not to sound horribly hopeful. It probably doesn't work, because Regulus flips from watchful to vaguely panicked and bewildered.

“Why would I know where to find Sirius?”

“Because you're his brother?” Harry supplies, feeling somewhat confused himself.

Regulus gets that quietly pained expression again and admits, “We haven't had an actual conversation in over four years.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“He's a member of the Order of the Phoenix and I'm a Death Eater,” Regulus says hoarsely, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “Sirius isn't sentimental or stupid enough to care about blood over common sense.” Regulus sighs tiredly. “He'd curse me on the spot if I showed up on his doorstep, if I even knew where it was.”

Well... there goes that sort-of plan. That's actually somewhat sad, honestly, but not entirely unexpected recalling the only time Sirius ever mentioned his younger brother ( _“...my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them...”_ ) and just... Sirius in general. Scornful of his family, doubtful of his own brother's importance, but... there might have been something wistful in there too.

There had been something wistful about Sirius in general. And Harry has no doubt that the Sirius he knew probably would have been overjoyed to reconcile with his traitorous brother. But the Sirius he knew had lost some of his dearest friends, his freedom, and spent twelve years in Azkaban.

Still... Sirius was the one person Harry could tell anything to. His godfather was protective and understanding, loyal and caring at the core of him, and wouldn't turn Regulus away, Harry's certain. Definitely not after he heard the full story.

“I'll make sure he hears you out,” Harry offers. “You should... you should talk to him again. I think you can still make up.”

Sirius cared more deeply about his loved ones than anyone Harry had ever met, and when he died, the hole he left felt like Harry would bleed to death with the pain of it. There has to be room in Sirius' heart for his younger brother, if Regulus isn't in there already, just... deep down and forcibly repressed for obvious reasons. There has to have been a reason for that wistfulness.

Regulus looks at him, pained again, but maybe somewhat hopeful too. “Yes?”

Harry smiles, over the painful memories. “Well... you're not a very good Death Eater, for one.”

Regulus chokes on nothing and stares disbelievingly at Harry again, then appears to actually consider it. “No, I suppose I'm not,” he says hoarsely, breaking into a small smile that might be the first one Harry's seen of him. It transforms his whole face, and it's a rather good look on him.

“Actually pretty terrible at it,” Harry continues, nudging at Regulus' ribs with a socked foot. “Doing pretty much the exact opposite of what Vol- Tom would want. Might want to try something else.”

“Like what?” Regulus asks, brows raised questioningly.

 

 

Harry shrugs, rather unhelpfully, in Regulus' opinion.

“Dunno,” he says, stretching as he settles into the pillows. “What did you want to do when you were choosing your classes at the start of sixth year?”

Regulus blinks at the non-sequitur and tries to recall that meeting. He'd been marked the summer before – on his birthday, in fact – and most of Slytherin had known it, or guessed at least. He'd been terribly pleased at making his parents and family so very, _very_ proud of him (and he was so _terrified,_ but he was a Black and could _never_ really show it). He had only really known in theory then that it was a lifetime of service or death. As a Death Eater and the Black spare heir, any career he managed to have for himself would be more of a disposable hobby than anything else.

So in that private meeting, he'd made his course selections, his Head of House had agreed, and when the time came to discuss his future career, Slughorn had just said, _“...I'm sorry, my boy.”_ For someone who walked an admirable, practically masterful balancing act between sides, who had never seemed to look at Regulus without seeing the Black brother he'd actually wanted, that had been a touching risk for the old professor to take.

“Nothing much,” Regulus deflects, then his manners kick in. “Yourself?”

Harry sighs and sinks deeper into the pillows, which Regulus eyes enviously. He wants to move up the bed to have one of those horribly floral cushions for himself, but he's also incredibly tired, and too comfortable to move despite this... place... hardly being up to his standards. It's just temporary, though, and right now, between his roiling stomach and aching head, he'll take what he can get.

“An Auror,” Harry answers, a little bitterly. “But I ended up ditching my seventh year at Hogwarts to go Horcrux hunting instead. Now I don't even have my OWLs. What a pain.”

Now that's interesting. Regulus can't fathom what kind of situation would lead to this junior Potter ditching his schooling to fight the Dark Lord, specifically hunting some of the Darkest magic imaginable. That doesn't seem the sort of thing that James Potter and Lily Evans would allow, especially the witch that Regulus remembers from the Slug Club. It's just as intriguing as the idea of as a son of James Potter who has some sort of issue with Albus Dumbledore, enough to want to avoid him in a fairly desperate situation for _personal reasons._

Regulus opens his mouth to comment on that somehow – maybe on how Harry's brilliant mother with the unfortunate bloodline is going to ground him for life, or how Harry is following in his equally brilliant father's footsteps by fighting Dark wizards – but he ends up yawning instead. Too slow to get his hand up, it's wide and rude and exactly the sort of them his mother might send a Stinging Hex at him for.

Harry just looks sympathetic and concerned, and ends up yawning too. “We – ah – can keep talking tomorrow,” he says, rubbing his eyes behind his hideous glasses. “Figure things out in the morning. You should probably get some sleep, after all that.”

Regulus _tsks,_ but his eyelids have been drooping pretty much ever since he flopped onto this awful bed in his best impression of his mother. Now that he's had many of his questions answered – he has _so many more_ now, though – and his conversational partner's given the suggestion, he wants nothing more than to let his eyes close and stop fighting the promising weight of unconsciousness. Almost as soon as Harry suggests sleep, it's been several seconds of not-thinking and he has to remind himself to open his eyes and stay conscious awhile longer. He can't fall asleep like this.

“You good to share a bed?” Harry asks.

“...Hmm? Yes, fine.”

Regulus doesn't remember what happens next. Harry probably asks something else, about preparing for bed, and moving under the blankets instead of flopping on top of them. The important thing is that his head ends up on one of the hideous floral pillows, someone drops a blanket on top of him, he doesn't have to be awake anymore, and he's not dead. His aching head is full of odd thoughts ( _diary? living Horcruxes? how? and that scar-!_ ) and impossible possibilities ( _Sirius, oh, Morgana, please_ ) and he has no idea what in the world he's going to do tomorrow ( _tomorrow barely feels real_ ).

 

 

Harry wakes up to the sound of Regulus puking in the dingy washroom attached to this awful room, which sounds pretty similar to how he feels. He groans, all aches and blindness, struggles out of the blankets and gropes the bedside table for his glasses, the only remarkable and most important thing he managed to Conjure for himself. The room in the weak morning light and in focus looks... about as expected. No Inferi or Dark Lords or Death Eaters, besides the one in the other room.

“You alright?” Harry calls, yanking himself up to sit on the edge of the bed.

He gets a retching sound in answer, before Regulus calls back, “Fine!” Which is promptly followed by more retching sounds, and the half-open washroom door is slammed shut as further punctuation.

“...Alright,” Harry says, and goes about performing the regular routine he's developed over his months on the run. Hygienic charms feel strange, but tent washrooms and laundry are touch-and-go sometimes, so it's either spells or feeling gross.

He grimaces at the inevitable hunger pangs of having skipped supper to save Regulus. Food's been a little hard to come by, save the complimentary, basically stolen breakfast that comes with his Confunded accommodation. It's not particularly different fare from his months on the run, and he's gone for longer without real food before, but it's at times like these that he really misses Hogwarts feasts and Mrs. Weasley's cooking.

He ends up making the bed out of boredom and then sits on its edge, waiting for Regulus to come out of the washroom. Regulus still hasn't said what he plans to do next. The Black's pretty much gotten Harry's plans out of him, but Harry has no idea what Regulus is going to do now with all the information that Harry's dropped on him. He clearly wants to destroy the Horcruxes, though, which he needs Harry for (doesn't everybody), and he seemed... hopeful about Sirius.

Harry waits for Regulus to come out of the washroom, thinking over his options for finding Lily and James Potter. He knows the Weasleys best, of course, and might be able to talk them into calling up his parents without contacting Dumbledore. But he's still really uncomfortable at the idea of going near the Burrow, since he doesn't really know these Weasleys and they don't know him at all. He's lost his Weasleys... maybe forever. Probably forever.

He pushes those thoughts out of his head, though. Forcefully. He's already had one breakdown since landing in 1979, over Ron and Hermione and nothing at all making _any_ damn sense, and he doesn't need to have another. He wants to have another, because _nothing about this makes sense and he's supposed to be dead,_ but he doubts Regulus will be all that impressed if he just collapses on the floor and transforms into a crying, angry wreck. It's either be calm or face the facts, and the last time he faced the facts, he walked off to _die._

So... anyway...

As for Hogsmeade... Aberforth has extremely high chances of Dumbledore. Madam Rosmerta isn't an Order member, but she knows a lot of people, so she might be able to help. But she also gossips and Harry has a feeling the Dumbledores will find him before the Potters. Heck, Zonko's could be a better path if the Marauders inspired Fred ( _alive!_ ) and George Weasley so.

Harry doesn't really know where to find all that many Order members, honestly. He could walk right into the Ministry to see Moody, of course, but there's no way he'd get past the man's paranoia. He thinks that his father and Sirius worked as Aurors at some point, or something similar, but he's not certain, and he doesn't feel much like going to the Ministry at all. Not really keen on it after the last time. And he has no idea what he'd be walking into this time; Voldemort's spies could be everywhere for all he knows.

The only Order homes he really knows are the Burrow (too uncomfortable), Grimmauld Place (not an option), and Mrs. Figg's place. But he's pretty sure that Mrs. Figg doesn't even live on Privet Drive yet, so knocking on her door isn't an option, but... oh.

Oh, _that's_ certainly... a possibility.

Harry shakes his head and checks the time again. He's heard the rusty shower turn on and off, after a lavishly long time between, the sink turn on and off a few times, and he honestly cannot wait any longer or he's going to go mad. This is getting ridiculous. He has to use the washroom himself and they're going to miss breakfast at this rate.

Thankfully, Regulus finally opens the door before Harry can blow it off its hinges, looking far too collected and styled for someone who nearly died less than a day ago. His long hair is somehow pulled even more tightly back into ponytail, not a hair out of place, and his black robes look like they've been pressed instead of slept-in. Exemplary pureblood Slytherin style. He still looks pale and ill, but only in a slightly tired way instead of half-dead.

Harry slips into the washroom to use the toilet, wash his hands, and splash some actual water on his face. It's a quick five minutes, since they need to get down to breakfast and it'd be some kind of miracle if there's anything but ice in the pipes by now.

But when Harry steps out of the washroom, Regulus looks at him like he's got blood on his hands. Except at his head. The scar again? No, Regulus is staring in horror above that this time, and Harry self-consciously runs a hand through his bedhead. It's more or less the exact same as his untidy usual, unless it turned bright orange or something when he wasn't looking.

“You're not going to _do_ something about _that_?” Regulus demands, then looks him up and down with the sort of horror that belonged on a stage somewhere. “Anything?”

“Uh, no,” Harry replies, glancing down. Yep, baggy jeans and shirt, a little ratty but with all the cave dirt and salt charmed away. Could be worse. “C'mon, there's food downstairs.”

Instead of the _tsk_ sound that Harry's coming to expect, Regulus makes a sound like a strangled cat as Harry passes him. Merlin only knows why and Harry doesn't want to try and figure out. He'd much prefer to get something to eat and get on with things. For all he knows, any longer in the room and Regulus will try to take a second shower that lasts approximately an eternity.

“This is not food,” Regulus insists later, holding a paper plate that Harry stacks with stale muffins and squishy pastries from the dismal buffet selection. He looks only mildly horrified now, but occasionally eyes Harry's hair like it's going to attack him at any moment.

Harry rolls his eyes and pulls them both to a table at the edge of the dining room, away from the other, vaguely shifty looking residents getting their free meal. Harry's learned now that really no one gives a damn about much, not the busy guests or the rarely-seen staff. Regulus' stylish robes have only gotten them a few odd looks; Harry plans to tell anyone who comments that Regulus is just getting his money's worth out of his Hallowe'en vampire costume.

“I've had worse,” Harry says with a shrug. He would definitely trade this for Weasley cooking or a Hogwarts meal in an instant, but this is still better than nothing or half a grapefruit.

Regulus watches him dig in with more mild horror and disbelief. He eyes the food in front of him like he can't quite believe worse exists, turns slightly green, _actually turns up his nose,_ and pushes the plate away. Next to Ron, who'll eat almost anything, this is hilarious.

Harry snorts and says, “To each, his own.”

“I just happen to prefer my food be edible,” Regulus responds calmly, sitting back against his seat and putting one hand defensively over his mouth and nose. Harry is almost tempted to hold out his fork and see if Regulus shies away farther, but the guy did drink a horrible potion not long ago, so Harry can show some mercy.

Harry eats while Regulus studies the few guests and staff straggling in and out. The plate is cleaned quickly, a leftover from the Dursleys, probably, and Harry soon asks, “So what're you going to do?”

“I beg your pardon?” Regulus asks, looking back to Harry and drawing his hand away from the sleeve holding his wand. Harry insisted, sticking the Elder Wand in his pocket in example, and Regulus had relented even though he clearly isn't happy about it.

“What are you going to do now?” Harry repeats slowly, fairly certain Regulus heard him the first time.

 


	7. Impossible Things Before Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True freedom is difficult and unlikely, and this unexpected path to destroy Voldemort likely ends in certain death, but so was the other one, and he faced death then with less hope than he has now.

Regulus isn't sure exactly why he bothers pretending to have been focused entirely elsewhere. It's not as though he needs to buy time or anything, having had so long to think already this morning. He knows he's not being magically influenced or being threatened somehow, having checked himself over for outside influence repeatedly while Harry was still sleeping. And it isn't as though there's much point in wasting the appearance of disinterest on Harry Potter, who's perfectly at ease in this filthy place, in hideous Muggle clothing, and with hair that Regulus is almost physically itching to do something about. Oh, Morgana, his _magic_ for a bottle of Sleekeazy's right now.

If Regulus wasn't already inclined to believe that Harry was the son of James Potter, the ridiculous nest his saviour was perfectly comfortable having on his head _in public_ was proof enough.

“Oh, hang on a mo',” Harry says, reaching for his pocketed wand and flicking it under the table with a whisper of, “ _Muffliato._ ” He pockets his wand again as a faint buzz of magic swirls up around them, and explains, “Keeps conversations from being overheard. Just in case.”

Well... that's incredibly useful. Regulus is all for every bit of information Harry has to give, but if his saviour could stop being so terribly casually... useful, it would be so much better for his poor peace of mind. It's so useful and fantastic and Regulus is going to use every last bit of it, but sometimes he just wants to flop onto the nearest piece of furniture and stay there for a few hours.

Oh, Morgana, he's becoming his mother.

 _Anyway..._ in that untidy-haired head of Harry's are priceless secrets, such as to the Dark Lord's immortality and how to make him mortal once more. Regulus can hardly let someone with information like that just go on his merry way, and hope that Harry finds someone capable of doing something about the issue. There's too much at stake to just wish this poorly-dressed Potter good luck and hope for the best – Regulus' family and the fate of their entire world, its survival and culture and traditions, are some of the first things to come to mind. Regulus can't simply entrust something this dangerous and important to Harry, as grateful as he is to his thus-far fairly competent saviour.

The Dark Lord – who has apparently made a Horcrux of his _diary_ at sixteen using _Moaning Myrtle_ (Regulus entire world view is permanently changed by knowing that and he almost wishes he didn't know) – must die. The Horcruxes must be destroyed else he destroy them all. This _must_ be seen through to the end.

Cooperating with Harry gets him a lot of information and brings up a lot of interesting questions – the curse scar on the forehead, the two Horcruxes that haven't been made yet, the idea of living Horcruxes, and so on. (And why _seven_ Horcruxes? Doesn't that divide the soul into _eight?_ Regulus is pretty sure the Dark Lord can, in fact, count, so why seven plus one pieces?) Sticking by Harry's side gives him ample opportunities to ferret out more information about Harry's intriguing life – dragons, Inferi, basilisks, oh my – and useful knowledge – venom, Fiendfyre, goblin-made swords – and even the chance to repay the Life Debt Regulus now owes him.

It also gives Regulus the opportunity to reconnect with his brother, which he can't honestly say he doesn't want near-desperately. If there's anyone who could get Sirius to even look at him again, James Potter's son (Sirius' _godson)_ from the future seems a likely – and _willing_ \- candidate. And even if they cannot be close again, how could Regulus pass up the opportunity to warn his brother of his approaching death and deal with that traitorous friend Pettigrew, at very the least?

And Regulus' main other option is... well... returning to a life he didn't enjoy if not hated whole-heartedly. One that seemed to hate him whole-heartedly in return. He didn't want to involve his family then and he doesn't want to involve them now. Death is a convenient and blessed, although probably temporary, escape from the brand on his forearm and the responsibilities of being a _true_ Black. True freedom is difficult and unlikely, and this unexpected path to destroy Voldemort likely ends in certain death, but so was the other one, and he faced death then with less hope than he has now.

He'll take this opportunity and wring everything he can from it.

“I hoped... to join you... and find my brother,” Regulus admits, far more awkwardly than he'd like.

Appearing genuine, which he is although his motivations are varied, is sensible considering Harry's character so far. But it's difficult here somehow, and he feels his face burning slightly. This opportunity is golden and he needs to grasp it however he can, but parts of all this feel far too good to be true. What if he's read all the signals wrong and Harry has actually been hoping to get rid of him quickly? What if Harry thinks of him only as a gateway to Sirius? (So many do.)

Harry looks surprised, but very pleased. “Oh,” he says. “That's... good.”

It's comforting to know, at least, that Regulus isn't alone in his awkwardness. Although most of the comfort comes from the fact that Harry _clearly_ doesn't care about appearances, and otherwise there is no one but some few gawking Muggles to witness Regulus continuously embarrass the Ancient and Noble House of Black. No one can ever know about his time here.

“What about the locket?” Harry asks.

Regulus makes a careless motion with his hands, the acceptable version of a shrug. “It's not in any immediate danger, is it? Our elf's mourning makes my apparent death more believable for the moment, and I can summon him and the locket at any time.”

A neat piece of bargaining, held out of reach if or until he needs it.

“Huh, I guess so. … I, um, thought of a way to maybe contact my parents, by the way,” Harry says, “which is pretty much the same as finding Sirius, right? To find one is find the other, and all that stuff.”

Regulus nods, quelling the bitterness that rises automatically by this all too accurate point. His brother and James Potter are rarely not attached at the hip. Brothers in all but blood. To find one is just as good as finding the other.

Envy may be unbecoming of a Black, but it's still there.

“My mum's got a sister,” Harry explains, looking oddly uncomfortable. “Aunt Petunia might have a phone number... or an address... or something. I figure it's worth a try, since there's no chance of running into Dumbledore talking to her.”

“You know where to find her at this point in time?”

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he says, still looking so strangely uneasy. “Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Moved in the autumn of 1977.”

Regulus wants to ask why Harry knows where to find a Muggle woman but not his own mother at this point in time. He wants to ask why Harry knows when his aunt moved into her home in the middle of Muggle nowhere, yet not where to find his own godfather. And why does Harry rattle off the address with everyday, long-memorized ease?

Instead, Regulus asks, “What's the first residence of your parents that you're aware of?”

Harry blinks, clearly taken aback. “Uhm... Godric's Hollow. It's empty, I already checked. Why?”

“Just trying to get a picture of things. Do you know of any other residences?”

Harry eyes him with a surprising amount of calculation, and says, “No.”

“Hmm,” Regulus answers blandly. A full address for his aunt, but only a vague village for his parents? And only one residence? Something's wrong about this. “Your mother's sister is a good lead.” Regulus didn't even know that Lily Evans even had a sister.

A married, Muggle sister would be incredibly difficult for any wizard to track down, and something like a... telephone number? Regulus is fairly certain that's like a Floo Line and has no idea how to begin to go about using it or using it to track someone down. Leaving that kind of connection would be a safety risk on Evans' part, of course, but a very, very small one. Regulus remembers the Head Girl being a friendly, sentimental, kind person, and she definitely seems the type to stay in contact with her Muggle family even in wartime, despite the very minimal risk.

And a Muggle woman will be child's play to extract information from, unlikely to attract any magical attention at all, much less any consequences. Targeting Muggle family is a clever and surprisingly but admirably underhanded for a Potter. Regulus approves. Lily Evans will be initially upset, of course, but the revelations Harry brings will quickly excuse them.

“Is she married?” Regulus asks, trying to establish a fuller picture.

Harry's face immediately darkens, which is a pitfall Regulus wasn't expecting. He curses himself. Oh, Morgana, the Muggle woman's and marriage is something that clearly brings up bad memories for his saviour. Stupid, senseless _mistake._ He has to regain his footing in Harry's good graces quickly, as Regulus can _see_ him closing off. So suddenly and so completely.

“Yeah,” Harry says coldly.

The appearance of regret and humility should do it, and it helps that Regulus really doesn't mean or want to upset his confusing, mystery-keeping saviour. Seeing a new side, this sudden, dark anger, is actually... somewhat upsetting and uncomfortable. Besides, inducing it further would make for poor repayment on Regulus' behalf.

 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to pry,” Regulus says quietly.

Harry looks at him, _really_ looks at him and his muted apology, and wants to scoff. That's a blatant lie, he thinks. Regulus has basically been doing nothing but pry since they started their ongoing conversation. Nothing but questions and more questions, and Harry has gotten mostly vagueness and deflections in return. Talking about Sirius was the closest they got to Regulus opening up. Harry's getting sick of being the only one sharing.

“Whatever,” he says.

The reminder of Vernon Dursley's existence doesn't help the temper being held under various feelings of loss and being lost. Things have been going well so far – better than anything's gone for Harry in far too long a time – and it was starting to feel vaguely suspicious, before the mere thought of his horrible uncle shoved him back down into a foul mood. Vernon Dursley leaves a dark feeling in Harry's chest, oddly familiar to those surrounding Peter Pettigrew, and Harry can't tell exactly if he's hoping to actually see the man or to never lay eyes on him again.

So far, Harry has been trusting in Regulus' desire to destroy Voldemort and, well, his own memory of his beloved godfather. But it's becoming increasing apparent that Regulus is very much his own person – restrained and sly are two traits that come readily to mind – and this prolonged introduction is very one-sided. Enough about Harry's awful relations, what about Regulus' awful relations?

“So you're really just gonna let your family think you're dead, then?” Harry can understand ditching loved ones for their own safety, he regrets and rationalizes making that choice in turns, and he knows it's hard. But here, if Regulus starts feeling homesick, that home has Death Eaters.

Regulus' eyes widen briefly. “Yes, it's the best way to assure their safety,” he says, taking the subject change so in stride that it bugs Harry slightly. “Having any knowledge of my... mission to see the Dark Lord mortal once more will endanger them all. If I'm thought dead, no one will be watching my actions or accused of aiding me.”

“What about your tattoo?” Harry asks, tapping his left forearm pointedly. He's always been passingly curious how exactly the Dark Mark worked, and assumed Voldemort could use it to summon his Death Eaters and track them at will. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

Because Voldemort is exactly the sort of bastard who'd put tracking tags on his followers, after all, and might not even tell them.

Regulus has been running a hand over the wand up his sleeve, which just so happens to be his left one, and now he grips the black fabric defensively. “The Dark Lord will not notice my absence for a few more days at least. There are ways to counteract any attempts at Divining my location.”

“Like there are ways to subdue a cave full of Inferi?” Harry says before he can help himself. He wants to help Regulus, give Sirius his brother back, repay Kreacher, but... he'll pretty much be bringing a snake straight into the lions' den, won't he?

Regulus shoots him a bewildered glare, which disappears into his blandness almost infuriatingly quickly. But there's a pinkness to his cheeks that doesn't fade nearly as quick. “I may have overestimated my abilities there,” he says calmly, “with... admittedly nearly fatal consequences, but I have considered this idea for... a significant amount of time, and I believe it can be done.”

 _Right, sure,_ Harry thinks, but instead asks, “How did you find out about his Horcruxes?”

He's passingly wondered about this too. Regulus didn't have Albus bloody Dumbledore revealing Voldemort's secrets to him at an embarrassingly slow pace – _raising him like a pig to slaughter –_ so how did he connect the clues? Regulus looks and seems so... young. Younger than Harry expected, very barely older than Harry.

Why is it that they seem to be the only ones capable of dragging Voldemort to death?

Harry would, honestly, in this moment, take seeing both Vernon Dursley and Peter Pettigrew instead of having to face Albus Dumbledore again. From that man came so much silence, avoidance, isolation. So many implied promises, warm smiles, and leading statements. Harry died as he was supposed to, it didn't work, and now the betrayal is settling comfortably into his bones as he wonders if Dumbledore really knew what he was doing at all. Supposedly ultimate plans are looking more and more like a patchwork string of holes, barely holding together, and Harry's been barely holding it together too.

He concentrates on Regulus, hoping for distraction, angry at the sudden disappearance of the comfortable morning they'd started with. It might be his own fault, though, bringing up Aunt Petunia as a possible lead. He likes the Dursleys so much more when he can't see them, can't hear them, and is gladly pretending they don't exist.

Regulus seems somewhat off-balance by all this too, but answers with poise. Harry actually kind of admires that about him; Regulus acted with controlled poise half-dead in the Inferi cave too. Harry isn't great about the poise thing - the faint writing on the back of his hand proves that well-enough.

“The Dark Lord has a tendency to... extol his own virtues, at great length and frequency, especially in regards to his forays towards immortality,” Regulus says mildly, lips briefly twitching with something that might be smugness. “There are not many ways to escape death, and it was obvious which method the Dark Lord had chosen when he made the great mistake of leaving our house elf for dead.”

Harry almost cracks a smile at that despite himself, because, _Merlin,_ is that true. Even though it's life or death, always absolutely terrifying and never humorous, it's kind of funny how Voldemort can't seem to shut up. In front of the Mirror of Erised, in the Chamber of Secrets, and then there was a dramatic, winding speech to his Death Eaters in the graveyard.

However, Voldemort did seem to learn his lesson... by the very end there... in the forest again.

“And you got Horcruxes from boasting?” Harry asks, out of more need for distraction rather than disbelief. Regulus seems bright enough to manage it, with his background and Kreacher.

“From his borrowing of our elf,” Regulus corrects. “Before that, there were many possible theories.”

“Hmm.”

Regulus clears his throat. “As you're finished with your... meal, we could now proceed to your lead. Unless, of course, you have any other pressing matters in this place.”

Not particularly. There's not point in Obliviating the people here, and he doesn't exactly have a bill to pay for a room he Confunded his way into. Harry just doesn't want to get up because he doesn't really want to follow his own lead, and deep down, kind of wants to punch something at the idea of returning to Privet Drive after thinking he'd left it behind forever.

It's a weekday, though, so Uncle Vernon won't be home at least. It's honestly a bit of a toss-up with Vernon Dursley, but without him, Harry would rather face Aunt Petunia than anyone else right now. (He doesn't know how to  _begin_ to start apologizing to the Weasleys for everything they'll lose fighting for him, for one, or explain why he left without saying goodbye, especially since they don't even _kno_ _w_ him and it's not even _relevant_ anymore.) He'll never like her, but he has more pity than anger for Petunia Evans at the moment; honestly, the thing he likes most about her is that she doesn't really have any way of contacting the old man and will probably cooperate to get rid of them faster.

“No, we can go,” Harry says, sliding to his feet. “You good to Side-Along again?”

Regulus stands slowly, with enough grace to mostly disguise the wariness. “I'm unfamiliar with our destination,” he comments, “so I must be.”

“Hmm. Sure you don't want to eat something?”

 

“Absolutely positive,” Regulus answers immediately, inwardly shuddering at the mere thought of the food offered in this filthy place. At the very least, no one will _ever_ suspect a Black hiding in a Muggle establishment such as this one, and for the sake of his image, no one can ever know.

Yes, the sooner he sees the last of this horrible place, the better off he will be. He cannot understand how Harry can stand any of this, from his own clothes to the environment, to the few subtly gawking Muggle almost surrounding them. No self-respecting and reasonably talented – if the cave and Harry's parentage are any indication – wizard should be able to find this bearable for any length of time, and yet Harry Potter seems oddly comfortable in sub-par conditions.

Perhaps Regulus was too tired to notice something was off yesterday, or perhaps Harry had yet to reveal anything incriminating, but something is very wrong here. Oh, he believes Harry's story – for the most part – but Regulus knows now that he's missing at least three or four _key_ facts to the tale. Possibly more, possibly less, but Regulus can tell they're there.

Why does Harry only know one Potter residence? Or is it that he simply doesn't trust Regulus when he's already shared much more sensitive information, and if so, why? Does he think Regulus will harm his parents somehow? Why is Harry so familiar with his mother's Muggle relations' home? How can he act mostly unbothered by some of the Darkest magic and Dark Lords out there, but go so very dark at the mention of a Muggle woman's marriage?

Why would Lily Evans and James Potter, of all people, let their barely adult son ditch his seventh year to hunt Horcruxes? Were they with him? What kind of personal issues could Harry have with the _great_ Albus Dumbledore? How does Harry know so much about the Dark Lord's Horcruxes when Regulus only found one basically by chance? Why seven? What were the remaining two? Why would anyone create a _living_ Horcrux? And just thinking of the Killing Curse, what... what even _is_ that mark on his forehead?

Harry said he died in 1998 and ended up here, in 1979. Before, Regulus had mostly just be glad and grateful not to be dead himself, but now... how did Harry Potter die? And why is he so... not resigned, but... accepting? Casual? So very unbothered by it?

Regulus has so many _questions._ It's been occasionally stated by various family members that it would be his curiosity that would do him in someday. Thinking back to that nightmarish cave, it's clear that they may have been right, and that he clearly doesn't learn. Which is vaguely distressing, of course, because that's usually Sirius' thing.

“Alright then,” Harry says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “C'mon.”

Regulus represses a shiver at the coldness that has yet to leave Harry's voice. Perhaps not all that unexpected in hindsight, by how quiet Harry had been about his lead, but still... unnerving. It had been a strange turn-around to be the one being questioned. Regulus is fairly certain he didn't give anything incriminating away, but he's honestly uncertain. He hates being the focus of intense examination, and he tends to slowly crack under pressure.

He likes the friendly, empathetic, joking version of Harry Potter much better. That fit in more comfortably with what, admittedly little, he knew of James Potter and Lily Evans.

Headed to see the Muggle sister of Lily Evans, Regulus is now concerned for Harry and for himself. Her marriage is what seems to have caused the sudden switch and now they're headed to her home? If they encounter her spouse, how will Harry react? Why the coldness? What are they facing?

Maybe this 'Aunt Petunia' married a wizard? She's a Muggle, of course, but the preservation of blood and culture doesn't matter to some wizards out there. One Evans sister managed it, and if the Muggle was anything like her sister... well, as fellow members of the Slug Club, even Regulus could admit that Lily Evans was somewhat beautiful and clumsily charming despite her bad blood.

Hopefully, they'll be able to slip around any obstacles and avoid any complications. Take what they need as quickly as possible. Harry knows the terrain, so Regulus just has to keep him on track and balanced, perhaps... do a little damage control if necessary. Because that coldness... that icy temper and mercurial mood... well, it has Sirius written all over it, and Regulus has never known this sort of thing to end any way but explosively.

Admittedly, Regulus never really managed to rein Sirius in from embarrassing their family or creating some massive disaster, but not trying is always worse. Appearances have to be upheld, while every member of his family gives _him_ sour, disappointed looks for not being able to tame his elder brother – loud, wild, and naturally more gifted than him in every which way. Harry Potter seems much more civil than Regulus' brother, but equally unpredictable in an inexplicably different way. Regulus will have to be on the edge of his broomstick for this one.

Maybe Regulus is just worrying too much, though, as he knows he tends towards (for good reason). Extracting information from a mere Muggle woman can hardly be too difficult.

 


	8. An Unfortunate Unsocial Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He raises a hand to the doorbell, grits his teeth and grabs a tight hold of the wand in his pocket, and pushes the button before Regulus can ask him what he's waiting for or he can decide he'd actually rather not do this.

Harry thinks he could step through space to this place from halfway across the world. It's been years since he spent a late morning in November on Privet Drive, but the small street in Little Whinging has clearly been resisting change for longer than Harry remembers. Save for the chill in the air, it's almost exactly the same as when he left, from the neat lawns to the shiny cars.

Except the cars are much more... rectangular than Harry remembers. That's different.

“I think I must be dead,” Regulus comments dryly, surveying the street. He's got a haughty look on his face again, slightly repressed out of what might be an attempt at politeness. He looks exactly as unimpressed as Harry has always imagined the Malfoys would be by Privet Drive.

“Why's that?” Harry asks, glad to have someone keeping him from remember the last time he saw this place.

Such a stupid, wasteful, and pointless plan that was. In hindsight, it's another one of those behind-the-scene workings that is starting to make less sense the more he thinks about it. In the moment, sure, whatever, but now? What were they all thinking? Except Harry doesn't actually want to think about it, because then Hedwig and Moody will have died for nothing. Even more than they did because it was always intended that Harry die, just at the right bloody moment.

It was, dare he say it, a _holey_ plan.

And that vaguely humorous thought is just enough to keep him from smashing the nearest pristine mailbox onto the pavement. Just because he feels like it – like wrecking something nice. Just because he can – because he really could, now. Just like the delinquent these perfect, normal people in their perfect, normal houses always so readily, carelessly, and almost _eagerly_ believed him to be.

Regulus casts him a dry look. “Because this is clearly hell.”

Harry snorts, because yeah, it's pretty much that. He has so many feelings of pain and anger and injustice for this place. Merlin, so many years of misery in this awful place, so many years of hoping that someone would take him away, or that next year would somehow, almost _magically,_ be better. From sleeping under a staircase while darling Duddikins got increasingly spoiled, to missing Ron and Hermione and Hogwarts and Sirius – his real homes – so very badly with every fibre of his being, to raging, mourning, hurting – without reason or understanding or control – because Cedric and Sirius were _dead_ and it was all his _fault._

It could have been worse, he knows. His time in Privet Drive isn't at all comparable to, say, Sirius' twelve years in Azkaban. And if not for the blood protections – the validity of which Harry isn't thinking about at the moment – he probably would have been killed or kidnapped, he knows. Harry was safe and fed and sheltered here, mostly. And maybe he's being an ungrateful brat not being grateful for this not-sanctuary, because it could have been so much worse, but...

(“ _You heard me – OUT! OUT! OUT! I should have done it years ago! You’re not bringing trouble down on us, if you’re going the same way as your useless parents, I’ve had it! OUT!”_ )

He hates this place. So bloody much it burns him.

( _“I’m going. I’ve had enough.”_ )

“C'mon, let's get this over with,” Harry says, nodding Regulus in the direction of their destination: Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

They walk down the street side by side, with Regulus looking with somehow disdainful curiosity at everything around them, and Harry trying not to shiver under the breeze or glare at Mrs. Number Seven peering out behind her curtains. The residents here are as unchanging as the street itself apparently, ever the nosy gatekeepers of dullness. Harry's willing to bet that there'll be stories tomorrow about the odd pair of boys – in a Hallowe'en costume and raggy, second-hand clothes – who came to visit the Dursleys. And he can't deny that it pleases him some part of him to think that he's dirtying their precious reputation, just by being here, and that there's nothing they can do about it.

“Is there some purpose to all the houses looking exactly the same?” Regulus asks with edged casualness, sounding so remarkably like Sirius that Harry almost does a double-take. “Or is it some sort of Muggle superstition that the appearance of individuality will bring about bad luck or curses?”

Harry snorts, leading them up the walk to the Dursleys' front door. “Probably, but they'd all keel over before admitting it,” he replies, noting that the garden looks decidedly more barren and less perfectly-tended than he remembers, even for the season. In his eyes, it wasn't so much missing a green thumb as it was missing his thumbs. Merlin, how many hours did he have to put into that dirt?

“It's almost unnerving, really,” Regulus continues, poking cautiously at the _WELCOME_ doormat with the toe of his boot. Which, now that they've been brought to Harry's attention, look like the expensive, handcrafted, dragon-hide sort that are nothing like the shabby trainers Harry found for himself.

“Hmm,” Harry answers, well-used to being disgustingly out-of-place in these perfect rows.

He raises a hand to the doorbell, grits his teeth and grabs a tight hold of the wand in his pocket, and pushes the button before Regulus can ask him what he's waiting for or he can decide he'd actually rather not do this. The sooner they get this done with, the sooner he can find his parents and never see this place again.

But that still doesn't mean he wants to do this. He wants to and doesn't – he's excited but angry but terrified here. Harry feels like he's going to jump out of his own skin, like there's a monster in his chest going to rip its way out. If he didn't have Regulus just behind him, he'd probably Apparate away and go back to hiding and being an indecisive mess, unwilling to approach anything and waiting furiously for an explanation that wasn't coming.

The door opens, Harry's breath catches. Suddenly there's a familiar stranger in front of him, primping her hair and running a smoothing hand down a flowery apron to her stomach. She answers the door with the curious tilt of the head Harry knows she uses for unexpected callings, instead of the welcoming beam she'd use for esteemed and expected dinner guests.

Petunia Dursley is unmistakable, but the woman in front of him is so much younger than the aunt he remembers leaving Privet Drive. Her styled blonde hair is brighter than he remembers, her face completely free of wrinkles, and she's just... young. So much so that her blue eyes seem brighter too. She can't be much older than him, really. Petunia Dursley looks less pinched, less stressed, less worn, and is actually and honestly pretty. This young – Merlin, so young – woman could without a doubt be the sister to the woman Harry knows from the Mirror of Erised.

Then she frowns, face pinching, as she takes in the mismatched, definitely unrespectable appearances of the two teenage boys on her doorstep. Yeah, there's the Aunt Petunia that Harry knows. Especially with the vaguely disgusted look at Harry's shabbiness, her mouth opening probably with a threat to call the police, which is interrupted by wide-eyed horror as Regulus moves out behind Harry slightly and she gets a better look at the obvious wizard past the delinquent.

Petunia immediately tries to slam the door on them. Without a word, without any warning, the front door is slamming shut like a guillotine's snap. (“ _Up! Get up! Now!_ ”) With enough force to honestly hurt the hand already reaching out – Seeker's reflexes – to stop it. Petunia shrieks as he does.

Harry opens his mouth to say something, he's not sure what exactly, but the words get caught in his throat, he chokes on them, and then Petunia is already gone. Regulus pushes them both inside as Petunia’s blonde curls disappear down the hall, his aunt screaming all the while at the top of her lungs. Regulus shoves past Harry, darting left into the parlour, and is pointing his wand at the back door before Petunia can reach it or Harry can move.

“ _Colloportus,_ ” Regulus snaps, then turns to Harry with much less urgency and says, “Well, don’t dally on the doorstep. Close the door and lock it behind you.”

Harry watches this happen distantly, with the faint sense that he was back at the Ministry for the locket or back in Gringotts for the cup again, which isn’t a good sign. He turns around to see who’s seen them and notices Mrs. Number Seven’s stunned face gaping at them through her window. She disappears into her house as soon as Harry catches her eye, and Harry has the horrible feeling she’s running for her telephone.

Words cannot express the true sentiment going through his head at the moment, somewhere between a high-pitched ‘ _oh no, I have made the worst possible mistake’_ and _‘bloody hell, not this again’._ Harry’s plans always seem so uncomplicated and adequate until he tries them and all hell breaks loose.

Harry closes the door and locks it without magic, pulling out the Elder Wand and opening his mouth to say something else – call out a warning, probably; complain, maybe – but he’s interrupted again as he notices the heavy metallic _thunk_ and crash of someone rifling desperately through pots and pans going on in the kitchen. Which is immediately followed by a terrified scream, a startled yelp, and a heavy crash in the next room.

He remembers, then, that there are lots of very sharp things in the kitchen, which is pretty close to the back door Regulus just locked, and sprints for the parlour doorway. Regulus is ducked down behind the sofa like it’s a barricade, wand readied in one hand, expression incredulous. Not too far away, the coffee table has a massive dent in it and there’s a familiar piece of kitchenware by the fireplace. It’s not very difficult to deduce what happened from this scene, but Harry is both completely unsurprised and can barely believe his eyes.

Aunt Petunia threw the frying pan at Regulus.

Fucking hell.

“Do something!” Regulus hisses, peering cautiously over the sofa in the direction of the kitchen.

Harry figures that bursting into hysterical laughter isn’t what Regulus means by that, so he very carefully does not do that. Even though he really, really wants to. Instead, he looks towards the kitchen from the parlour, then leans back and stares down the front hall to the kitchen door.

He can see the cupboard under the stairs out of the corner of his eye, which somehow looks even smaller than when he left, and he fiercely ignores it. Just knowing it’s there makes something bubble and burn inside his chest. It’s probably being used for storage at the moment, and it aches to think that no one’s ever considered making anyone, much less a boy, sleep there.

( _“Go – cupboard – stay – no meals!”_ )

But that’s not important. Not at the moment. Not at all, really. Not in the grand scheme of things.

( _“There is no such thing as magic!”_ )

Harry can’t see Aunt Petunia, but she’s got to be in there. With the back door locked, there’s no other way out but the front door – not unless Petunia wants to try shimmying out the kitchen window, which she’d need to break - Harry wouldn't put it past her - because it doesn’t open. So they’re at a standstill, because Petunia’s probably not leaving the kitchen and Harry’s not going in there to get his own pan thrown at his head. Or worse; there are lots of very sharp and heavy things in there.

Regulus peers further over the sofa and warily gets to his feet again, raising his wand. “Stop just standing there and do something!” he hisses towards Harry.

Harry remembers that there might be police showing up soon if Mrs. Number Seven went for her telephone, quickly considers Regulus’ amusingly wild-eyed look, and takes a deep breath. He has no idea what to say, where to begin, but things’ll probably somehow get worse if he doesn’t speak up.

“Au- Petunia?” he calls. “Petunia Dursley? We’re not here to hurt you, we just want to talk, okay? … You don’t have to come out, and… and we won’t come in, alright?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Frankly, he’d be surprised if he did.

From his half-crouched position behind the sofa, Regulus nods approvingly and rises fully. He makes to move towards the kitchen, very much not doing what Harry said they would do, and Harry has to make a panicky, what-the-hell, stop-doing-that motion until he stops. Regulus stares at him with obvious confusion, and bewilderedly but silently moves back towards Harry in the parlour door.

“What?” Regulus says quietly, stopped so he can still keep an eye on the back door.

“What were you doing?” Harry whispers.

“…Moving to subdue her? Extract information,” Regulus answers, obviously confused. “What are you doing?”

Subdue? Extract? It takes Harry a few seconds to work out what that means, but he doesn’t like the answers he comes to. Did Regulus think they were going to use the Imperius Curse or something? Admittedly, it would be very easy and get them any information without trouble – it’s so tempting an option that it sends a disturbing shiver down Harry’s spine. He’s not that desperate yet. …Is he?

“Asking!” Harry answers, a little angrily, though he doesn’t know at whom. “With words!”

Regulus stares at him, gives him a considering once over, then lowers his wand and says, “Fine.”

 

He should have figured Lily Evans and James Potter’s son for a Muggle-lover. The comfort in Muggle clothing and the ease in Muggle spaces was a heavy-handed hint. It’s so obvious that Regulus wants to drag his hand down his face for having temporarily forgotten what was right in front of his face. He was misled by the way Harry had stared with such obvious hatred and disdain at this obviously Muggle neighbourhood.

Or maybe it’s just a family thing. This less attractive, banally dressed Muggle woman is Lily Evans’ sister, after all, and even if she’s obviously high-strung and prone to violence… actually, Regulus can see the resemblance there. The point is that it could just be loyalty to family. Regulus can respect loyalty to family – would actually respect Harry for that loyalty. One can’t help their family, however mundane this particularly family’s blood may be. Which is likely less mundane than average, with potential latent potential, simply given Lily Evans and her son.

“Fine,” Regulus says, backing away.

He can let his saviour handle this. The Muggle woman is Harry’s aunt, after all; Harry knows this territory better than Regulus does. Regulus will simply take over again if asking politely goes wrong – which, given Regulus just had a _cooking pan thrown at his head,_ seems incredibly likely – or Harry freezes up like he did on the doorstep again. Which was unhelpful but understandable.

Stand back. Observe. Wait. Watch. Regulus is good at that, if nothing else.

Harry nods, watching him now with the same wariness that pops up occasionally. He looks a little angry, a little mistrustful, and Regulus would give a lot to know what’s going on behind those Lily Evans green eyes. He has no idea what Harry’s thinking – he’s never met such an apparently simple but disturbingly complicated person before – and he’s missing too much information to guess.

Harry glances at one of the hideously floral chairs, points at it, and says, “Sit.”

Regulus stares incredulously at him. Blacks do not gape. _Blacks do not gape._

“Sit,” Harry repeats firmly.

Feeling very much like he’d fall over if he didn’t, Regulus goes over to the nearest ugly chair and sits down. It’s not the distraught flop that he really wants to do, but it’s fairly close. His saviour wants him to sit and cooperating is good, so Regulus does, crosses his arms, and regrets every decision in his life that has led him to this point.

It could be worse, certainly, but preferable isn’t the same as acceptable.

“Au- Petunia?” Harry calls again. “We’re just looking to contact your sister… Lily Potter. Just to talk to her. All we want is an address or a phone number, and we’ll be going. … Petunia?”

The Muggle woman in the kitchen still doesn’t answer, and Regulus quickly gets bored with watching for movement further in the house. Watching Harry is much more interesting.

Harry looks anxious, like he’s… what’s the Muggle expression? Seen a ghost? He’s trying to keep his eyes fixed down the hall, but he keeps glancing about, especially towards the stairs. His body language screams discomfort with the location for the first time since Regulus has met him, which is fascinating. Yet another piece in the mystery of Harry’s apparently close-but-poor-by-turns relationship with his Muggle family.

There isn’t a chance that the Muggle woman’s husband is a wizard – this is the most Muggle residence that Regulus has ever seen, although he admittedly hasn’t seen very many. Actually this is the first one he’s ever been inside, but that’s not the point. It's Muggle in here.

Wondering as to this hated husband’s identity, Regulus notices several picture frames on the mantle. He glances at Harry and slides out of the seat as sneakily as he can. Harry catches sight of him immediately of course, and frowns at him. Regulus raises his palms in a gesture of peace and starts pointedly poking about at various tasteless items of décor, not immediately going for the photographs. Harry scowls at him some more, but doesn’t tell him to stop and doesn't make any flailing motions, and soon looks away again.

“Au- Petunia,” he calls, “all we need is a phone number or an address to find Lily and James Potter.”

Regulus goes straight for the photographs and grimaces before he can help it. Lily Evans’ sister has, according to this wedding photograph, married a walrus in a black and white suit. What an unattractive man, appearance not at all aided by the general unattractive nature of Muggle frozen photography. Not the sort of person Regulus imagined would inspire such cold anger.

Regulus continues investigating, looking to find out more.

The Muggles are very boring people, is what he discovers. He also finds that there are no pictures containing or items that remind him even remotely of Lily Evans. Either the mantle is themed specifically on this Muggle couple or the Muggle woman doesn’t want her magical sister’s presence in her parlour.

Harry sighs, “This isn’t working,” then points his wand down the hall and says, “ _Colloportus._ ”

Something down the hall clicks, the hall-kitchen door most likely, and Harry stops leaning on the parlour doorframe, moving into the parlour itself. He walks past Regulus, moving cautiously into the dining room to get a better view of the kitchen. Wand raised, of course, presumably to fend off whatever the mad Muggle woman throws at him. He stops just on the edge of the dining room and parlour border, and starts talking again.

“Petunia, I just want to find Lily and James Potter,” Harry assures the unseen woman. “...Do you have _any_ idea - any at all - where to find Lily and James Potter?”

Harry’s voice breaks on that last sentence and Regulus, who had been watching interestedly, has to look away immediately and focus on absolutely anything else. Regulus suddenly doesn’t want to be witnessing this anymore, because his saviour has stopped sounding like a saviour and instead sounds like a tired teenager who just wants to go home already. The pleading note in Harry’s voice hits far too close to the heart for Regulus. Distant observation has suddenly become too real, too fast, and Regulus wants to be anywhere but here and hearing this.

He throws himself into filtering through the Muggles’ belongings. Hideous knick-knacks had never been so very interesting, except they were actually incredibly dull and in no way distracting enough to keep Regulus from overhearing another tired sigh that made his chest squeeze. He moves away from the mantle, pokes at a strange piece of machinery sitting on an end table, and starts going through its drawer. Just a notebook with only a few pages of dull reminders and uninteresting messages, some Muggle writing utensils, and a small black book that’s likely more of the same.

Regulus has already flipped through a few pages before he realizes that it’s not more useless messages, it’s a book of contacts. He straightens, finally fully distracted, and starts flipping through the pages. It’s mostly Muggle business associates, going by the male names and the ‘work number’ and ‘work address’ boxes being the only ones filled out, as opposed to ‘home number’ and ‘home address’. There some couples and female names too, with the opposite. All organized alphabetically, how useful.

Regulus flips to E first and finds no Evanses, then to P and finds no Potters either. Becoming angry and frustrated, Regulus reads through the entire stupid book of Muggles and finds absolutely no mention of Lily Evans or James Potter. Regulus almost throws it at the wall before he remembers that they could be under a false name, which would be the intelligent thing to do.

He flips through it again, more carefully, to see if any names stand out. None do, but he does notice after he turns the last page that the inside of the leather cover have pockets. Regulus checks them both and, to his recently much-changed fortune, finds a slip of parchment paper. Familiar and yellowed, unlike this flimsy Muggle stuff, with a note that’s clearly been written with a quill. Regulus doesn’t need three guesses to know who it’s from, especially by the contents of the note.

It reads, _I’m sorry, Tuney. Please call me if you want to try again. Love, Lily.  
_

And then there’s a string of eleven digits underneath it, which Regulus assumes to be a Muggle telephone number. It’s organized in a strange three digits, four digits, four digits pattern. Regulus holds the parchment out in front of him to frown at the unknown code.

Then he notices the heavy Muggle device sitting on the end table again. It has twelve buttons on the front of it, ten of them with single digit numbers engraved, and a handle-like thing on top, which is revealed to have ends with holes when Regulus cautiously picks it up and turns it over. He frowns further at it and its oddness. Regulus presumes this to be a Muggle telephone. But no Black has ever deigned or been allowed to take a Muggle Studies class, so he doesn’t know how to use it to make use of what is most likely Lily Evans’ telephone number.

Regulus glances over at Harry, who’s still trying to speak to the Muggle woman hiding in the kitchen, and immediately decides that he doesn’t want to intrude. He was perfectly happy not paying any attention to that conversation, but now he’s aware of it once more and it’s still uncomfortable from the awkward attempts at bargaining to the long silences. Let Harry keeping trying the difficult method of extracting information from an uncooperative Muggle. Regulus will simply entertain himself whilst ignoring any and all thoughts of family and blood. He will entertain no thoughts of lost family and terrible familiar relationships.

Regulus can figure this Muggle device out on his own. He doesn't need assistance. It can’t possibly be that complicated if Muggles use them. There’s a code of numbers on the parchment and numbered buttons on the device, it seems straightforward enough. He’d like an illustrated guide, of course, but that seems unlikely.

Digit by digit, Regulus enters the code on the parchment. He’s momentarily confused, because there are dashes between the groups of digits but no dash button, but decides to just skip the dashes. If there’s something he’s missing, it simply won’t work and that will be that. After entering the last number, Regulus waits, and is oddly both disappointed and gratified when nothing seems to happen. The fault likely lies in the dashes somehow.

Then the handle part in his hand makes a faint ringing sound and he startles, almost dropping it, and then stares at it. Perhaps the handle piece was meant to be attached to the telephone and not removed? Before he replaces it to try again, Regulus raises the handle to his ear to hear the ringing sound better. It’s a positively fascinating sound, almost like a Sneak-o-scope going off, and Regulus is only mildly dismayed when the interesting ringing sound is interrupted by a click.

Only mildly because he’s distracted by the pair of Muggle vehicles, with a flashing blue light on the top and a crest he doesn’t recognize on the side, that pull to a stop in front of the house. Several Muggle men in blue uniforms get out in a hurry. Why are Muggles always in such a rush to get places?

“Oh, hell,” Harry groans. “The police. Fantastic.”

And a friendly, familiar, female voice suddenly says into Regulus’ ear, _“Lily speaking. Who’s this?”_

 


	9. You Are Nearly There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…Hello,” a woman’s voice replies, slightly tinny and uncertainly bemused, but recognizable nevertheless. Even if Harry had only heard that voice a bare handful of times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is far too long.
> 
> “You are nearly there,” said James. “Very close. We are… so proud of you.”  
> \- J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 34: The Forest Again_

Harry is torn.

He needs to get an address or phone number from his aunt, but he doesn’t really want to go near Aunt Petunia. Outside of using magic or threatening to use magic, Harry doesn’t really know _how_ to get Petunia to talk, because she’s clearly not going to cooperate and make polite conversation. No surprise there, really. She hates magic and hated him. The best form his and his aunt’s relationship has ever taken is basically ignoring each other, and Aunt Petunia at her worst is… something between barely bearable and torturously unpleasant, if there’s a word for that.

_(“That’s where you’re going. A special school for freaks. You and that Snape boy… weirdos, that’s what you two are. It’s good you’re being separated from normal people. It’s for our safety.”)_

Trying to coax anything about Lily Evans from Petunia Dursley sounds like it ought to be immediately written off as a lost cause. Attempting the desperate task is awkwardly stilted, achingly terrible, and quietly infuriating. Just being in Number Four, Privet Drive, again is bad enough. Harry hates this place and everyone in it - his hands keep trembling if he doesn’t hold them still – and it’s so damn frustrating to find that facing all this could have been for nothing.

_(“Apparently wizards poke their noses in everywhere! Freak!”)_

Regulus’ plan of using magic to get what they want is sounding increasingly appealing, and Harry finds that’s the worst part. Harry still remembers how much easier the Imperius Curse made breaking into Gringotts – the quick, quiet, desperate, _necessary_ theft of another being’s free will – and the spell had been far too easy to cast for something Unforgiveable. There had only been time to shake off a self-disgusted shiver, before hurrying on to steal Hufflepuff’s Cup. No real time for contemplation; no real time for some remorse for something he still doesn’t really regret because it had been so _necessary_.

Harry still remembers Ravenclaw tower, too, which happened less than a week ago, even though it feels like forever ago now.

_(“You shouldn’t have done that. … Crucio!”)_

The man was yanked into the air like a puppet, like a man drowning on dry land, thrashing and howling in agony. It was with a flick of the wrist that glass shattered and the man smashed into a bookcase before crumpling – strings cut – to the floor.

It was so easy. So practiced. So careless and simple, like he’d successfully cast the spells dozens of times before and couldn’t imagine failing. The worst pain imagine, falling so naturally off the tip of his wand, as great and terrible as any Cruciatus the Dark Lord himself had ever cast. Almost as though Harry had not cast it himself, except he had, because his blood had been thundering with exhilaration, and even now Harry cannot bring himself to regret cursing Amycus Carrow insensible with agony.

_(“I see what Bellatrix meant… you need to really mean it.”)_

Harry has no intention, none whatsoever, of casting the Cruciatus Curse on Aunt Petunia, of course, but the Imperius Curse is terribly tempting. It would be so quick, so easy – answers without having to face his aunt’s sharp tongue and hateful scowl. Regulus is a Death Eater and probably wouldn’t care. It immediately seems so ultimately harmless, too, and Harry has already crossed the line before. Does another step back over really matter?

But it does. Harry remembers the graveyard, the classroom with Barty-as-Moody, and how the effects echoed restlessly afterwards, even after having resisted. He remembers the nightmares and the sleepless nights, terrified that Voldemort would manage to possess or control him.

_(Just answer no… “I WON’T!”)_

Harry will fight – maybe a little hypocritically – to his very end for free will. Even if it didn’t matter much, in the end. He’d be desecrating the memory of everyone he’s ever cared about or who cared about him if he stopped caring about snatching free will from living beings for his own gains.

_(Here lies Dobby, a Free Elf.)_

And even though he can no longer feel Voldemort’s thoughts and rage and cruelty in the back of his head, he cannot help but feel that Tom Riddle is still there. Quietly waiting, watching. Harry knows in the back of his mind that he will never truly be free of Voldemort – scars fade, but they don’t heal – and he knows that he will not be able to live with himself, like himself at all, if he throws around any Unforgiveables simply because he does not want to face his fears, work slighter harder for his goals, all with the justification that his actions are simply necessary… for the damned greater good.

He’s putting too much thought into this. Harry knows that he’s overthinking this and that this should be far simpler, but between Regulus’ simple suggestion of extracting information forcefully and the years of memories that Privet Drive brings… between walking to his death and being stranded in time… Harry would like to think that he’s allowed to overthink things some.

If only he could put that thinking into figuring out how to enter the kitchen without having a frying pan thrown at his head. Then, they’d be in business.

Harry notices then the flashing lights and sounds outside the window, which he had before only heard in the distance or more commonly seen on some of Dudley’s more violent television shows. If how Harry is not entirely surprised by the vehicles pulling up outside isn’t an indication of how terribly their plans usually go, then Harry’s not sure what would be.

“Oh hell,” he groans. “The police. Fantastic.” _Thank you, Missus Number Seven._

Then Harry notices that Regulus has the phone to his ear and looks politely sceptical of either its existence or his own. He wouldn’t have thought Regulus capable of using a phone. Harry would be surprised that Regulus actually tried to use one, whatever the case, if not for how, in the past day or so of knowing him, Harry has actually figured out that Regulus is a bit of a prying, overly-curious, sly git, thank you very much.

Watching the policemen rush towards the front door, Harry remembers that he never locked it with magic. All of Dudley’s television programs had the police and other action heroes kicking down doors; Harry doesn’t have a clue if that’s true or not, since his experience with breaking down doors consists of pointing a stick at them, but he’s not going to risk it. He rushes through the parlour, into the front hall, and casts a _Colloportus_ on the front door just in time for something heavy to bang into it.

Regulus watches him, still looking slightly baffled, and waves his wand at the parlour curtains almost absentmindedly. Aunt Petunia’s precious, furniture-matching curtains immediately swish shut and darken, becoming opaque, blocking the window view and dimming the room.

“What are you doing?” Harry demands.

Regulus listens to the phone for a moment more, then says in a far too loud volume, “Please excuse me for just a moment!”

Not a yell, but not an indoor-voice or phone-volume voice either. Harry is reminded very strongly of Ron’s poor attempts at using a phone.

Regulus listens to the phone for a few seconds more before holding it away from him, somewhat gingerly. “I’ve managed to reach Lily Evans through a telephone number I found in a book of contacts,” he says, with a smug little grin, pleased as punch with himself while Harry’s stomach gets punched out at bottom.

Several shouts and distressingly loud sounds come from outside, which they both ignore.

Regulus tilts his head slightly. “Police?”

“Muggle DMLE,” Harry manages to push past his strangled throat.

Regulus’ eyes widen slightly. “Oh,” he says, somewhat lamely. “Well… that’s a respectable response time. Very impressive.” He refocuses on Harry. “We’ll want to avoid interacting with them entirely, won’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you come and take _this,_ ” Regulus says decisively, carefully holding out the phone for Harry to take, “and organize a meeting. And I’ll secure the building.”

Harry takes the phone almost robotically, a fearful feeling rising in his chest, while Regulus gives it over with a non-expression that’s entirely at odds with how he dumps the phone on Harry like a Blast-Ended Skrewt. With another nod, almost confirming his own confidence, Regulus steps off to make Number Four, Privet Drive, worthy of withstanding a siege by the police. Harry almost reminds him of Petunia in the kitchen, but catches it, because having a frying pan thrown at his head doesn’t seem like something Regulus will easily forget.

Today is not going how Harry imagined it might. But, on that point, Harry didn’t bother to imagine very far, because the mere thought of talking to Aunt Petunia is enough to make him freeze up on a doorstep, and the thought of talking to his not-dead, not-yet parents is infinitely more terrifying.

He raises the phone to his ear. He takes a deep breath. Then another. Then…

“Hello?” he says.

“… _Hello,_ ” a woman’s voice replies, slightly tinny and uncertainly bemused, but recognizable nevertheless. Even if Harry had only heard that voice a bare handful of times.

_(“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”_

_“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…”_

_“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead-“)_

“ _…Who is this?_ ” Lily Potter asks.

“…Harry,” he barely manages to answer. “My name is Harry Potter.”

_(“Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy…”)_

_“Potter?”_ Lily says, audibly surprised.

Harry takes another deep breath. It doesn’t help.

“Yes,” he says.

There’s a brief muffling sound on the other end, a few beats, and then Lily Potter comes back. _“Well…”_ she says brightly. _“What can I do for you, Mister Potter?”_

_(“Your father’s coming… Hold on for your father… it will be all right… hold on.”)_

“I’d like… if we could… meet,” Harry says awkwardly, biting back many ‘maybe’s and ‘please’s. He doesn’t know how to do this. He wants to call Regulus back, just so he can ask someone what the hell you say to your mother who you’ve never met alive before.

 _“Oh?”_ Lily says. _“What about?”_

_(“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything!”)_

Harry tries not to choke on his own breath. “It’s… it’s not very believable,” he says. “I don’t… I don’t know how to explain it… not… not in person.” At the dead silence on the other end of the line, he panics slightly. “I’m… It’s about…”

_Everything._

Then the phone is deftly snatched from Harry’s grip and Regulus is there, pushing Harry down into an armchair. Harry’s legs give out beneath him like a snapped broomstick. He lands hard enough to make the cushions hurt, and it’s all he can do to hold on to his wand and look helplessly up at Regulus.

_(“They’re dead. … They’re dead and listening to echoes of them won’t bring them back.”)_

Regulus looks down at him, expression neither angry nor disappointed, holding the phone far from him. “You’re going to make me do absolutely everything myself, aren’t you?” he asks softly, mocking without any actual bite. “Lazy Potters.”

Harry puts his aching head in his hands and mutters, “Fuck off.”

“No, thank you,” Regulus says mildly, before pointing at the armchair Harry’s sitting in. Then he says, with the widest damn smirk that Harry’s ever seen, “Sit.”

Harry lets out a huffy breath that could maybe be considered a laugh, because that’s pretty funny, and obediently sits back. He can’t handle this. Harry mostly just wanted to _see_ his parents. He doesn’t have a clue how to begin to go about talking to them, blurting out the stupidest things that they’ll never ever believe. It’s a bloody miracle that he managed to convince Regulus of anything.

Regulus raises the phone to his ear again, nearly holding it upside-down but managing to flip it before he starts speaking. “Lily Evans?” he says politely, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, at a more appropriate volume this time. “Hello. … No, I’m afraid I’m someone else. … My partner and I are in possession of valuable information and want a meeting with you and your husband. … Beneficial to the Order of the Phoenix’s cause, of course.

“No, how we got this number isn’t important,” Regulus continues smoothly, like he would never ever dream of breaking into Lily’s Muggle sister’s house to forcibly get a telephone number. Not in a million years, he wouldn’t; how dare you, sir. “Rest assured that it’s not commonly known and we won’t be spreading it. … It’s a very special set of circumstances, Miss Evans. … Oh, Mrs Potter, then. My apologies.”

How old are his parents right now, anyway? Harry hasn’t really been thinking about it, but by the end, in the forest again, his parents had looked somewhere between Bill and Fleur’s ages, hadn’t they? So old in the Mirror of Erised, but so terribly young by the walk in the forest. Counting back – they were born in 1960, he remembers that from the gravestones that aren’t there anymore – Lily and James Potter are… nineteen.

Merlin, _nineteen_ years old. That’s only… that’s only two years older than him. And they were supposed to die in two more years.

How is he even supposed to _talk_ to them?

   
 

Well, Harry’s frozen up again. Regulus would probably find it annoying if it were anyone else, but it’s a fairly understandable situation when one takes a sensible step back. It must be shocking to come into contact with beloved (and not-so beloved, in the case of the Muggle aunt) family members who not only don’t know you, but don’t know you because you haven’t come to exist yet.

If Regulus was stranded years back in time and had to face a younger Walburga Black, then… well, that would be a very distressing situation. Distressing is likely a bit of an understatement, really. It would almost certainly go terribly, if not worse, as his grandparents were not especially tolerant people inclined to listening to young nobodies. He’d be very lucky if he wasn’t cursed horribly for being an obvious impersonator or an impertinent bastard trying to make some gold.

And Regulus is not certain how well his poise would hold up if he were to see a younger Orion Black either, especially since his father passed away earlier this year. It would definitely be distressing situation, to say the absolute least.

This squeezing feeling of empathy in his chest is extremely uncomfortable, and Regulus doesn’t like having it. Even if it’s over someone who saved his life and seems otherwise quite admirable despite being emotionally compromised. So Regulus will take over here, they’ll get this over and done with, Harry can pull himself together, and they can both pretend that neither of them experienced or witnessed any emotions from each other. Or, so Regulus is foolishly hoping, despite knowing that emotional encounters are very much not over and done with.

Regulus has yet to reunite with his brother, after all, which will hopefully be easy but will definitely be extremely difficult. Because Sirius is _never_ not difficult. And if Harry cannot properly interact with his parents over a voice-only system of communication, then a face-to-face meeting will likely see of resurgence of Harry freezing up or being embarrassingly awkward.

But the faster they deal with this, the less chance the Muggle DMLE have of making it into the building and creating a situation that might bring the attention of the Ministry. The chance is extremely low, of course, because Regulus knows what he’s doing and they’re _Muggles,_ but the chance technically still exists nonetheless.

At least they don’t have to worry about the Muggle aunt anymore, safely sleeping away in the kitchen and missing this entire conversation. Harry may have objected to using magic to extract information on his relative, which is reasonable, but he surely won’t object to Regulus simply putting the woman to temporary sleep and out of their way. It's really just sensible self-defense, really.

“We would like to meet as soon as possible – alone, of course; today, most preferably – just the two of us and you and your husband,” Regulus informs Lily Evans.

He doesn’t care if she did get married to that loud-mouthed, brother-stealing Potter, he listened to Slughorn sing her praises long enough to forever think of her with the phrase, ‘ _Lily Evans, such a charming girl!’_

 _“Uh huh,”_ Lily Evans says, sounding so unimpressed that it’s quite impressive. _“And why us?”_

“Because the information we possess is pertinent to you and your husband, of course. The name of my partner should have made that evident enough,” Regulus says, beginning to enjoy himself probably far more than he should; Harry looks ill and that’s unpleasant to see, but conversation with Lily Evans is the best game of words Regulus has played in ages. Especially because this is remote and she’s no Death Eater or purist; he doesn’t risk dying or being cursed by this – not from her, at least.

It’s almost thrilling.

 _“It makes it evident you know your way around a lie,”_ Lily says. _“How do we know we’re not walking into an ambush? Or being handed false information by… whoever you are.”_

Regulus thinks about it. He doesn’t want to give them the advantage of the time and place, because they could bring several Order members and might just Stun before listening. Giving up that high ground grates at every instinct in him. His best hope is to give them a shred of information as bait, not ultimately important or terribly useful, but enough to have them hooked.

“I’d swear you a vow, but there’s a device in the way,” Regulus says, thinking as quickly as he can.

He could, of course, sabotage this and see if he and Harry could continue alone. But Regulus can’t, really, because seeing Lily Evans and James Potter is the path that his saviour has chosen for them, so he’s honor-bound of sorts to help see it happen. Besides, he does want to reunite with his brother, even knowing that it will be difficult, and the Potters, especially this newest one, are the best path to that that Regulus can see.

If Sirius can see the work Regulus has been doing, the efforts he’s making to help, the quest he’s chosen… then maybe… maybe things won’t be so difficult. Maybe Sirius, despite never not being difficult, will see him, and... understand... for once.

 _“Where do you want to meet and when?”_ Lily says.

If that’s actual agreement instead of the opening of negotiations, Regulus may just swoon from surprise onto the sofa.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know what to say that will successfully bait Lily Evans and James Potter.

‘Peter Pettigrew is a traitor’? Unlikely to go over well.

‘I’m Sirius’ hated younger brother and a defecting Death Eater’? Very trustworthy.

‘My partner is your son from the future, and seems to be keeping an admirable amount of secrets for someone who may or may not be on the verge of some sort of breakdown’? Best not.

“Please excuse me for just a moment,” Regulus says, as though he lives a very busy life and has something he needs to attend to. Instead of revealing that he ultimately does not know what he is doing and lives in a constant state of secretly suspecting that nearly everything he does will go terribly, terribly wrong.

Regulus pulls the telephone handle away from his ear and covers the holes of the speaking part, then quietly inquires of Harry, “Do you have a place for meeting picked out?”

It’s only polite to ask, and Regulus doesn’t exactly know or hang out around many places where members of the Order of the Phoenix would be comfortable. Or alive for very long, at least.

Harry blinks up at him, then visibly thinks about it. “…The Shrieking Shack?” he suggests with a very sorry-looking shrug.

Regulus resolves to get Harry out of this draining place as soon as possible and to give his savior time to recover before any meeting. If Harry is not at his best, at his most convincing, when he reunites with his parents in person then they will soon have problems. Perhaps he can interrogate his saviour and coach Harry on what to say beforehand.

“That’s very close to Hogwarts,” Regulus observes slowly.

 _And to Albus Dumbledore,_ he doesn’t say, but Harry clearly hears it. Or something like it, at least, if his immediate grimace is anything to go by.

The Shrieking Shack is too close to both Hogwarts and Hogsmeade for Regulus’ comfort, too close to the reach of the powerful Headmaster and the possibility of watchful eyes working for either side.

Harry stays quiet, still thinking, and eventually suggests, “The graveyard in Godric’s Hollow?”

That’s… very grim. And Regulus doesn’t know enough about the location to comment much. He knows that Godric’s Hollow is a small village home to both Muggles and wizards – it’s housed several notable, if not very noble or pureblooded, wizarding families over the years. Including the Potters, who have or will have some sort of residence there if Harry is to be believed. But he knows little else of it.

Still, a graveyard is not a terrible suggestion. Actually… it’s a very, very good suggestion. Fantastic, almost, and Regulus cannot quite believe that he did not come up with something similar himself.

Graveyards are not typically very crowded, yet they're still a public space, and best of all: graveyards are considered sacred ground - by the older traditions, at least. It’s a sign of extremely distasteful disrespect to duel or even exchange verbal threats in a place where the dead are laid to rest. They’re not neutral ground exactly, being so personal by their very nature, but violence is unwelcome in places of mourning. That doesn’t stop the occasional argument or attempts to get rid of unwanted visitors at funerals, of course, but people like Lily Evans and James Potter will likely be disinclined to duel in a graveyard, by their nature if not by wizarding traditions they may or may not know.

Godric’s Hollow’s graveyard is certainly not a place the average Death Eater would pick, at least.

Regulus returns the telephone handle to his ear, checks the hideous clock on the mantle, and takes a leap of faith. “The graveyard of Godric’s Hollow. One o’clock this afternoon. Alone.”

Lily Evans hums in consideration, but doesn’t answer immediately. While waiting, Regulus puts a hand over the speaking end of the telephone handle once more. This time, he keeps the listening end next to his ear as he consults Harry once more.

“Harry, do you have any statement or unimportant secret that would make them immediately inclined to trust you? Or at least take the risk of a meeting?”

It cannot hurt to inquire. Harry seems to be continuing his pattern of being distressingly baffling and uncomfortably useful.

While Harry seems to think the question over with another grimace, Lily Evans’ voice comes back.

_“That’s a very interesting place, Mister ‘Someone Else’. But this is still all very… out of nowhere.”_

Understandable. If Regulus got a Floo Call like this out of nowhere, he’d never trust it.

Harry finally comes to a conclusion, looks up at Regulus and says very seriously, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Regulus doesn’t gape, because Blacks do not gape, but he does stare a bit.

... _What?_

_That's... that's not..._

_What?_

He quickly covers the speaking piece so he can hiss, “ _How_ is that trustworthy at all?”

Harry’s lips quirk into a smile, which is better than hazy moping, but very annoying nonetheless. Because that’s not a trust-inducing statement at all. That is the _opposite_ of a trust-inducing statement, not just in Regulus’ opinion, but quite literally so! _Literally._

Harry’s small smile quickly turns into a wide grin. “Trust me,” he says.

Regulus scowls, but relents. “Fine.”

Because if anyone knows Lily Evans and James Potter, then it would surely be their son. And if ever there was a pair of people with terrible senses of humor, enough to think that a declaration of being up to terrible things was somehow trustworthy, it's James Potter and Sirius Black.

“Mrs Potter? I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he recites into the speaking piece, his cheeks burning slightly, and feeling very much the fool.

Especially as Harry’s grin gets even wider, and the listening piece has nothing but silence for Regulus several beats after saying it. Then several more. It’s far more embarrassing and uncomfortable than it should be, and if this is some poor joke due to Harry being emotionally compromised or just having a sense of humor that terrible, Regulus will _not_ be pleased.

He waits for Lily Evans to come back, pointedly ignoring Harry and the very 'James Potter' smile on his savior's face all the while. Regulus is honor-bound not to curse or hex or jinx or cast any sort of vengeful magic on his savior just for grinning annoyingly at him. He is honor-bound and he will _not._ He has more control and dignity than that, even though it is very, _very_ tempting.

It feels almost like a blessing when Lily Evans does return.

_“Godric’s Hollow graveyard at one o’clock, you said?”_

 


	10. The Space Between Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus would very much like it if Harry could stop being surprisingly complicated and mysterious, because he seems like an incredibly simple and generally open person until he very suddenly isn’t. Regulus has been sure his saviour is hiding something from him, and never so much as now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another too long chapter. They need to be shorter, else I ramble and my update speed goes to hell and doesn't come back. 
> 
> Lily and James don't appear quite yet, so if you were waiting for them, pop by next chapter, because they're definitely in that one.

Well, they have their meeting. Regulus still doesn’t understand what part of ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good’ inspires trust, but now that he manages an effort to recall his earlier Hogwarts days, Sirius’ friend group always did consist of like-minded idiots and an absurd number of inside jokes that weren’t actually funny. Regulus wouldn’t know about these things, never having been in on anything even after his brother went away to Hogwarts and stopped looking at him.

“You’re not going to be able to freeze up that at one o’clock,” Regulus tells Harry softly.

“Yeah,” Harry says, head in his hands again. “I know.”

Even though Harry seeing his parents once more will most likely have the largest emotional impact yet, Harry cannot freeze up again. Because they need to make a strong impact on Lily Evans and James Potter – a positive impact, which Regulus doubts an emotional breakdown will bring.

But Regulus wouldn’t really know about that either, never having had an emotional breakdown and also never having had a significant emotional outbreak in front of another person. At least, besides the potion-influenced one he had in front of Harry in the cave, which seems to be working out quite well, but Harry seems to be a general outlier.

Mother and Father never really approved of emotion. Not the _weak_ kinds, at least. Mother is fond of outrage and other forms of vexation, and Father was a master of disappointment and disdain, and they always seemed to approve of every kind of hatred from subtle to violent. Like dear Cousin Bella’s bloodlust. They liked their pride and their pleasure – sometimes Walburga was soft and warm and delighted with him, which always made the rest of the time feel so much colder – but things like sadness and anxiety and fear were not commonly welcome in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Showing vulnerability was for other people – lesser people.

Regulus and Harry have not known each other for a full day yet, but they’ve somehow both managed to break those rules for appearances. Regulus might have thought lesser of Harry for this if he wasn’t painfully aware that Harry has seen him at his worst – incoherent, out of his mind, nearly dead due to his own arrogance, babbling pathetically – and miraculously doesn’t seem to judge him for it or any of the debatably worse decisions Regulus has made in his life, which he now owes Harry. Harry doesn’t even seem to recall Regulus’ moments of weakness and Regulus is grateful.

Besides, being emotionally comprised in this situation is entirely understandable. Now that Regulus considers the matter, he’d be exceedingly concerned for the sanity of his savior and the truthfulness of Harry’s story if Harry were still as flippant and unaffected as he’d been in the cave. At least Harry’s having this painful-to-witness struggle now and not in a truly inconvenient and urgent situation.

Regulus doesn’t consider the Muggle DMLE to be such, not when they can’t break through the most elementary and least time-consuming of magical protections. They’re barely a nuisance.

When Harry doesn’t seem to be removing his head from his hands anytime soon, Regulus awkwardly crouches down next to his savior’s chair. He runs through things to say, fighting the urge to fidget as he does. Regulus doesn’t know how to comfort people, not really; he just doesn’t get the opportunity. He can mediate and receive mixed results, but he can’t see the fight happening inside Harry’s head.

“You’re my curse shield,” Regulus reminds his savior, because sarcastic humor is of course the correct course of action in an emotionally turbulent situation. “I need you to talk to the evil and fearsome Order of the Phoenix members and keep them from cursing my poor, helpless self.”

It works. Harry takes his head out of his hands and looks bemusedly towards Regulus.

“Poor and helpless?” Harry repeats.

“Like a flobberworm,” Regulus says flatly, because the idea of a Black ever being that pathetic is so ridiculous that he can’t find any sort of reality in it. Safe self-depreciation, almost.

Harry’s lips twitch up into a smile. “Can I quote you on that?”

“Over my broken wand,” Regulus answers, rising smoothly to his feet. He jerks his head towards the clock on the mantle. “We have approximately two and a half hours to prepare, so we’ll be able to come up with a strategy. If you have any more…” Regulus shoves as much disdain as he can into the next two words to see if he can – “… _extremely trustworthy_ phrases…”

Success! Harry makes a huffing sound that can easily be interpreted as laughter. Regulus’ savior looks less on the edge of an emotional disaster and more good-humored again. Either the phrase has humorous significance that Regulus is entirely unaware of or Harry has the same terrible sense of humor as his father. Both scenarios are equally likely.

“So if you have more trustworthy phrases and pieces of information,” Regulus continues, “I will be able to take over the conversation if necessary.” He smooths his hair back as he thinks aloud. “Your story is… objectively unbelievable, due to the lack of precedence if not anything else, so we need strong pieces of proof to hook them in immediately.”

Harry leans back in his chair. “…How did I get you to believe me, then?”

“Saving my life helped,” Regulus answers, which makes Harry snort, and starts to make a list to help him think. “You look the part, you act the part, you know too much about extremely sensitive subjects, and Kreacher would never share information outside of the family. The combination made…” Regulus waves a hand in the air, searching for a suitable word. “…a strong impact.”

Regulus hasn’t _entirely_ dismissed the possibility that Harry isn’t the time-travelling son of Lily Evans and James Potter, because it’s simple caution to remember nothing is fully trustworthy, but Harry really did make a strong impact. His story is unlikely, but he’s quite reasonable and likeable and generally believable. Regulus knows he really shouldn’t believe Harry, but he _does._

Because Regulus just hasn’t been able to come up with another story that makes as much sense. Harry doesn’t seem insane and knows too much for a mad man, if Harry worked for the Dark Lord then Regulus would be dead already, this is too elaborate and serious for a trick, and Regulus cannot fathom what the goal would be here if this is a lie. The Black Family wealth or influence seems implausible, and Harry clearly doesn’t really need Regulus to find Sirius or his parents.

“We need a way to make a similar impact on Lily Evans and James Potter,” Regulus says, frustrated by the lack of immediate solutions coming to mind. He clearly cannot think here and feels like he’s repeating himself; redundancy is uselessness. “Shall we leave? …Unless you have other business here?”

This house has not seemed a good place for Harry. The sooner Regulus can get his savior into a better mood and stronger mental state, the happier they both will be. As stated, Regulus does not want to be cursed by Order members, and he needs Harry to give him a good position for any negotiation.

Harry nods his assent immediately, rising from the hideous chair. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go.”

“Do you have a destination in mind? Or shall I choose?” Regulus asks, holding out his arm for Harry to take. It unnerves him some that he trusts and has trusted Harry with his person; if this continues, Regulus may even lose the nausea of unfamiliar Side-Apparation.

“No, you can pick. Just no Death Eaters.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Oh, my apologies, am I bothering you?”

Harry snorts, then corrects himself, “No _other_ Death Eaters.”

“Fine, be finicky,” Regulus says haughtily, lifting his chin. He gets that uncomfortable squeezing feeling in his chest again when Harry actually laughs aloud, and he almost forgets to resist smiling in answer despite the faint and inexplicable pain.

Harry reaches out to take Regulus’ arm, but then draws back at the last moment. “What about Aunt Petunia?” His face screws up in concern. “And the police?”

“Sleep spell and the protections will wear off quickly,” Regulus summarizes, watching Harry’s face closely for any signs of an outburst. He’s not sure what about putting the Muggle woman to sleep might offend Harry, but Harry is confusing and Regulus still doesn’t know if he’s just familiarly loyal or one of the Muggle-lover types.

Harry stares at him, then just sighs. “Alright, then.” Harry glances around the home one more time, then focuses on the hallway behind Regulus. “Give me… one more moment.”

“Fine,” Regulus agrees easily.

He watches curiously as Harry moves past him to the hallway, trailing quietly and wondering what business Harry still has here. Wanting to see the upstairs? Picking up a Muggle family heirloom? Defacing the Muggles’ home somehow? (Harry clearly doesn’t like them and Regulus, though he is not his brother, can still appreciate vengeful petty vandalism.) If it improves Harry’s mood, fine.

But Harry doesn’t go upstairs; he stops in the middle of the hall, and with a deep breath leans down and unlocks the latch to a small door built into the staircase. With another deep breath, Harry swings the door open and Regulus peers over Harry’s shoulder to get a glimpse of… boxes.

Regulus’ brow furrows slightly. It’s a storage space. Is Harry really looking for something then?

But Harry doesn’t touch any of the boxes, there aren’t that many, or any of the Muggle cleaning supplies. Harry just… stares at the inside of the cupboard, full of darkness and a couple cobwebs, and Regulus quickly begins to itch for a better view of Harry’s face. What’s missing in this cupboard that should be there? Because the space itself isn’t interesting, only being fit for boxes and house elves.

“It’s a cupboard,” Regulus observes intelligently when Harry still doesn’t do anything. “...Should something be in the cupboard?”

Harry lets out a shuddering sigh, then rises to his full height again. He looks over his shoulder at Regulus, a bit morose (good Morgana, _again?_ ) and very wry.

“Not really, it’s just… smaller than I remember,” Harry says, then after a few beats adds quietly, “I u… never mind.” Harry’s knuckles are white on the small door as he hastily shuts it, and he winces as it closes with a snap.

Regulus would very much like it if Harry could stop being surprisingly complicated and mysterious, because he seems like an incredibly simple and generally open person until he very suddenly isn’t. Regulus has been sure his savior is hiding _something_ from him, and never so much as now.

“Let’s get going,” Harry says, raising his arm for Regulus to take.

“Yes,” Regulus says, threading his arm through Harry’s once more. “Let’s.”

 

Regulus whisks them away to a deserted patch of dirt road in a patch of sort-of-sunny countryside. Despite the surface appearance of randomness, Regulus wouldn’t dare take anyone else here if he were trying to hide his identity, given that this road leads to one of his family’s summer houses. It’s hardly the most pleasant and comfortable of spaces, but it is private and… well, the location has its meanings.

They spend the time until one o’clock rehearsing opening statements and coming up with ways to immediately endear Harry to his parents. Regulus inwardly wishes several times that they could create a scenario where Harry saves Lily Evans and James Potter’s lives, because it worked on Regulus, but that would be incredibly difficult and without a doubt go disastrously wrong. He wishes this because Harry knows or reveals appallingly little about his parents, and Regulus can’t decide to be concerned over that amount of obliviousness or annoyed at Harry’s reluctance to share information.

Regulus has no idea what possible evil could be committed by relating a person’s favorite foods.

(Well, honestly, he can come up with several ways to harm a person by knowing their favorite food, but that’s not the point. The point is that Harry should know by now that Regulus isn’t going to hurt Lily Evans and James Potter, or at least realize that they’re about to meet and Regulus could do far more direct harm when they do so favorite foods are entirely immaterial.)

But Harry just shrugs and claims he doesn’t know about most innocuous things, looking very embarrassed about the whole affair, and Regulus is left to wonder if his savior really is just that oblivious. Surely his very capable savior isn’t this oblivious, because Regulus may just imbibe an unreasonable amount of sherry and swoon onto the nearest piece of furniture if so.

The collection of stories that Harry _does_ offer bits and pieces of is slightly haphazard and full of odd choices from what Regulus can gather, but Regulus thinks they’ll do as proof. Harry recounts every meager slice of information on his parents with painful sincerity, and if by some incredibly unlikely star Harry is not believed, then at the very least Harry looks very much the part of Lily Evans and James Potter’s son. Strikingly so, really. As long as Harry can keep his wits about him, Regulus is certain they’ll manage to prevail in this matter.

After watching Harry haltingly test out opening statements in the beginning, though, Regulus does begin planning what they’ll do if this doesn’t work out in the back of his mind. Everything will depend on how exactly this doesn’t work out, but there’s harm in not thinking ahead. Just in case.

Regulus doesn’t blame Harry, though. People change greatly over the years and the Lily Evans and James Potter that Harry knows are about twenty years older than they are now. That is quite an enormous span of time. Regulus cannot immediately come up with a way to gain the trust of a younger Walburga or Orion Black. Regulus cannot even come up with a way to regain the trust of his elder brother. He’s trying very hard, of course, because he wants to reconnect with Sirius and has asked Harry to help him do so, but he still doesn’t know how to articulate anything that will keep Sirius from immediately hexing him for their past. This may, perhaps, have something to do with how Regulus’ feelings most easily articulate into immediately hexing Sirius for their past.

He’s still sure that Harry is hiding something, something big and potentially extremely important, but Regulus holds back on pushing for it. He’s not sure why he doesn’t push. It might be because he has quite a lot of clues already and feels as though he’s on the edge of all the answers. Or it might be because he can’t think of a way to cajole answers out of Harry in a short time frame without resorting to something underhanded and cruel, and he doesn’t want to do that to Harry, if only not to have to witness more emotional imbalance if not because it could go disastrously wrong and ruin everywhere from their meeting with the Potters to the working relationship he and Harry are developing. Regulus can’t lose this opportunity just because he’s too curious for his own good. He just can’t.

And they too quickly run out of time to prepare. Regulus had decided the time of the meeting on an unfathomable whim. There were lots of reasons to choose from; because they’d been moving fairly fast and were pressured for time by going after the Muggle woman; because Regulus was desperate for this to happen; because he didn’t want to sleep on it and give him or Harry time to back down; because he was hungry and didn’t want to spend another night in a filthy Muggle hotel.

But still, lack of time and preparation aside, Regulus is sure they can do this. He is certain that this can work and that it will work. Harry is charismatic and Regulus is clever, and they both very much need and want this to work. They’d made for a fairly effective team thus far and can face any complications that arise.

Regulus needs this to work because he doesn’t know what he’ll do with the swelling feeling in his chest if it doesn’t. This tiny thing he rarely dared to nurture because hope is a terrible thing and it hurt when it grew too big and went hungry from unfulfillment, which was often in his case. The only time he can name where he’d hoped for anything and things turned out better than he hoped for is when he went to go switch the locket and destroy it. And Harry showed up.

Ten minutes before o’clock, Regulus tells Harry to take them a street away from the graveyard of Godric’s Hollow. Harry complies, looking horribly nervous but holding his head high anyway, which Regulus, who feels similarly behind a face that doesn't show it, can admire. Regulus can’t even decide whether it is a Gryffindor or Slytherin-like thing to do, to put on a face of confidence and face something despite fear.

 _Is that what bravery is?_ Regulus thinks almost whimsically, as Harry takes his arm once more to whisk them off to the graveyard. He’d always thought it a foolish thing or something much more unattainable, both options describing Sirius, who has always made an exemplar Gryffindor, painfully well.

They won’t fail, whatever secrets Harry is hiding. Because they can’t.

Regulus has faced worse with less hope than he has now.

 

Godric’s Hollow is not as Regulus had been expecting. It is… quiet… and quaint.

At first glance, it appears to be a Muggle place, but there are touches here and there that mark it as a magical place as well. There are runes carved into the window frames and doorways and fences, and even an ironwork warning to fair folk over one doorway. Regulus spots a few familiar plants that are resisting the faint chill, some superstitious charms in windows to protect the home from anything from misfortune to magical pests, and the shimmer and signs of warding surrounding several homey houses.

The Black Family would never deign to live here, and would need powerful incentive to even visit, but Regulus finds nothing displeasing about the peaceful village. It’s certainly nothing like the Muggle place where they stopped this morning. There’s no one on the street at the moment, but there are the background sounds of life all around them, and Regulus finds it quite like Hogsmeade, only more residential. Some part of him thinks very quietly that it must not be hard to be happy here.

“Come on,” Harry says, jerking his head down the street. “This way.”

Harry tugs him in the direction of the graveyard and Regulus disentangles their arms to follow, carefully not worrying about how Harry’s Muggle clothing is too thin for the November chill. He’s seen ample evidence that Harry knows how to make use of charms and doesn’t need to worry about if his savior warm enough because that’s ridiculous.

The graveyard is much like the rest of Godric’s Hollow, quiet and quaint with magical touches here and there, but it also has the layer of lingering that all other graveyards do. There is a solemnness to places where the dead rest, the feeling of a space between spaces, a place of ghosts without ghosts in between the rows upon rows of stones. The only signs of other people are wilting bouquets and a small, haunted-looking church off to one side.

Regulus, who performed a handful of unresponsive charms to reveal presences before they entered, tries to keep a sharp eye out for the arrival of Lily Evans and James Potter, but graveyards always give him the sensation of being watched and there is something incredibly distracting about how Harry leads him through the graveyard. Harry is moving through the graves as though he has a destination already in mind. And while Regulus approves of the idea of them heading towards a strategic location, he doesn’t quite think that’s the case here.

To Regulus’ unexpected surprise, Harry doesn’t stop in front of any graves, but in an area made mostly of empty plots. Harry stops at a space where there are not yet tombstones and stares at the grass as blankly as though there are.

“…I don’t think I’m ready for this,” Harry announces quietly.

“I don’t think anyone would be,” Regulus answers, trying to discern the emotions of Harry’s stare and frustratingly failing. “But it won’t be done unless we do it.” Regulus is well-used to the idea of sacrifice, but something about that sole comfort sits uneasy in his stomach, so he adds against his nature, “If it… helps… at all, I will be right beside you.”

Harry looks up from the grass, blank expression melting into something more familiar and comfortable again. “Thanks,” he says, smiling faintly. “It does.”

Regulus ignores the fleeting painful twitch inside his chest. “You’re welcome.” How dull a comment, there must be a topic or a task that can distract them until Lily Evans and James Potter arrive, if they do.

Regulus’ eyes fall on the ground in front of them, enough space for a pair of graves, and an unexpected, intrusive thought flits through his brain. Ordinarily, he’d dismiss such a thought out of hand, but nothing about his current situation is ordinary. His chest tightens painfully for an entirely different reason as, for the first time, he dares to wonder something terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a quick, humorous one-shot that people should definitely check out. 
> 
> [**Percy Weasley and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6454921) \- _In which fourteen-year-old Percy Weasley is very stressed, does not get enough sleep, and accidentally and unknowingly saves the Wizarding World because of bad aim._


	11. Missing Graves and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But the graves are gone, and the mirror is missing, and Harry can still see his heart’s deepest and most desperate desire reflected back at him. Only… living… alive… in full colour and just… _real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has been awhile in the making.  
> Bear with me, both for the long wait and for the fact that this meeting ended up being much longer than expected. This is just the beginning of the meeting, the first sights, and it kind of ends on another cliffhanger. So if you want the whole "What will James and Lily do?", you'll have to wait. This is mainly about the emotions of everything, because I like that stuff.  
> So bear with me; I'm not totally satisfied, but I'm pretty sure that I need to post now so that I actually do keep posting. RL has been keeping me busy, kicking my tired ass. 
> 
> “Harry was looking at his family, for the first time in his life.  
> The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.”  
> \- J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, Chapter 12: The Mirror of Erised_

“Harry,” Regulus says urgently, mind racing.

Because the idea that Lily Evans or James Potter died makes too much sense. Why else would Harry be so upset at seeing them again, so emotional? Why else would Harry walk seemingly on memory to this place in Godric’s Hollow graveyard, if not to someone’s grave? Much can happen in twenty years, and if Sirius can… can die… then so can Lily Evans and James Potter. Regulus feels like a fool for not considering such a possibility before.

But why wouldn’t Harry have _told_ him? Harry would have told him these things, right? It makes no sense for Harry not to have told him something so monumentally relevant!

Regulus is on the verge of panic, which is overdue really considering their situation, at this idea. But he almost hopes that this idea is true, and that they really are standing over the future graves of Lily Evans and/or James Potter – which is a terrible thing to wish, especially if it is true – because the next unbidden thought he has is even worse. Because Harry _has_ told him of someone’s death.

If Regulus is unknowingly standing over the future grave of his brother at the moment, he doesn’t think he will ever be able to forgive Harry for it. He could not bear that.

Harry lifts his head to look curiously at him and several questions catch in Regulus’ throat all at once, but Regulus does not have time to unravel all his panicked fears, because Harry’s open expression quickly shutters at something over Regulus’ shoulder. Harry’s knuckles are pale on his wand.

“There’s someone under an Invisibility Cloak fifteen paces behind you,” Harry says, quietly enough that Regulus barely catches it. At Regulus’ widening eyes, Harry continues under his breath, “They’re making an indent in the grass.”

Regulus flicks his gaze over Harry’s shoulders and catches a faint haze that he has become intimately, fearfully aware of recently. _“Sugar Quills,”_ Regulus hisses near-silently before he can help it, furious at being distracted or outthought, then answers at a barely decipherable volume, “There is someone under a Disillusionment Charm several paces farther behind you.”

It is unlikely that these watchers are anyone but the very people they are trying to meet, but Regulus will take no chances in this war and it thankfully seems that Harry has enough common sense to be wary. Regulus does not at all like the idea of being cursed before they have a chance to speak, because he has no doubts that he will not be treated well if neither he nor Harry is allowed to make their case and negotiate some trust. He will _not_ be disarmed and left vulnerable.

“Switch positions, wands raised on unknown on three?” Regulus suggests.

Harry looks uncertain for a moment, but then he makes a barely noticeable nod. They both have their wands ready at their sides, and Harry shifts slightly so they both can go right to pass one another and come out with their wands up and spell path unobstructed.

“One…” Regulus mouths, “Two…”

They switch. Harry and Regulus slide past each other in an instant, trading places so that they’re almost back-to-back with their wands raised at the invisible strangers. Regulus does not know or trust Harry’s fighting abilities nearly enough to make this a fully effective stance, and can only hope that Harry shields instead of dodges should spells be thrown – please, let spells not be thrown; Regulus doesn’t want to be disrespectful and cast violence in a graveyard; he wants this to go well – but the switch was seamless and Regulus feels a bubbly pride in that. It is good to have someone at his back.

Of course, this does not at all help with the unanswered questions still racing in his mind and the sudden appearance of unknown individuals, but the successful switch was… well, it was cool.

If there is any justice in this world, he was simply overthinking things.

 _Is_ simply overthinking things.

“Show yourselves,” Regulus demands with all the seriousness he can muster, proud of how his voice doesn’t crack or even shake. Harry won’t speak first, so it has to be him.

The haze in the air, hovering between gravestones, pauses ever-so-slightly. It is a masterful casting of the charm, barely discernible even in the bright light of day, a simple blur of the horizon instead of the usual faint glint to the air. It spoke of practice with the charm, and Regulus would have never caught it if he hadn’t been looking for it.

A breath, a heartbeat, and then a young woman steps out of the hazy air with her wand raised in answer. Gone are the school robes he had last seen her in, exchanged for slacks, an old jumper, and worn, dirt-crusted boots; and her dark red hair is pulled back in a long braid, too, instead of left loose. The change makes her look older – more experienced, more adventured – than the Hogwarts Head Girl and fellow Slug Club member of last year.

Seeing her is an expected shock, and Regulus cannot help but immediately compare the features between the mother and the son. Harry looks very much like his father, but there are pieces of his mother in him too, if one is looking. Soft touches around the face, and a striking theft of the eyes entirely – almond-shaped and bright green, watchful and wary – like son, like mother.

“Mister Black,” Lily Evans says, as politely as any fellow partygoer.

Regulus doesn’t lower his wand an inch, even as he hears Harry take in a sharp gasp, although the temptation to look behind him is enormous. While his heart pounds in his chest, his free hand subtly wanders to Harry’s side, pressing against his savior’s arm, steady and reassuring as he can manage without feeling either and likely taking more comfort than he’s giving.

“Miss Evans,” he returns. “I trust it is your husband behind me with the cloak?”

Lily Evans’ expression, cool and cautious, does not shift. “Yes. Is this Harry Potter beside you?”

“Yes,” Regulus answers, pressing his hand more solidly against his savior as Harry released a quiet, shuddering breath. One of them was trembling, but Regulus couldn’t tell who. It could have been either of them; it was probably both.

Regulus swallows an anxious shift, an irregular heartbeat, and asks his own question. “Miss Evans, are the four of us alone? … The information we have to share is extremely sensitive, and may endanger lives if anyone uninvited is listening.”

“We’re alone,” Lily Evans says, before commenting with untrusting thoughtfulness, “I thought I recognized your voice, but I wouldn’t have expected a Death Eater to have my phone number and be desperate to share ‘information pertinent to me and my husband’.”

The forearm he has pressed against Harry burns, and Regulus stifles as much of his terror as he can to speak. Oh Morgana, he’s really doing this, isn’t it? He’s betraying the _Dark Lord_ and switching his allegiances to _Potters_ of all people. How stupid, how idiotic, how utterly foolish is this? This will most likely be the death of him, the fall of his entire family, trusting himself to these Light-minded sorcerers who do not and will not fight for him and his.

He’s betraying the Dark Lord, he’s betraying almost everything his family stands for, and he was supposed to die yesterday. If he continues on this path, he’ll be risking death every moment of every day until an impossibly powerful man who’s made himself immortal is dead.

Regulus doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until Harry’s left arm presses against his side in response, warm and steady and _human._ No, he is not facing certain death, he tells himself; being a Death Eater in itself risked death every moment of every day.

This here, this now – this will ultimately save his family – it has saved him already – and regain him his freedom and his brother. He has a second chance at life here, a Life Debt owed to the lost savior at his side, and more hope to end the Dark Lord than he ever could have imagined. This is dangerous and difficult, but it is what Harry wants… this is what _Regulus_ wants.

A sharp breath, a swallowing of his heartbeat, Regulus regathers himself. Oh, and he was worried about _Harry_ falling apart. (He still is. Very much. Hopefully he is giving as much comfort from this touch as he is taking.)

“Well, to be honest,” Regulus says, without any shaking but with a note of high, faintly nervous breathlessness that he hates, “I’m not a very good Death Eater.”

Beside him, Harry makes a noise that might be a snort or him choking on thin air. Lily Evans, while she still looks untrusting and watchful, raises her brows at them. Regulus would name the expression as questioning disbelief, and is certain that he has been wearing it often himself since Harry entered his life and saved it.

“Actually pretty terrible at it,” Regulus continues on borrowed sureness. He channels every lesson of posture and dignity he ever had, straightens himself and says, “…Would you mind if we could have this discussion without needing eyes in the back of our heads to see both you and your husband at once? I’m not particularly partial to being surrounded and held at wandpoint… It tends to stifle conversational progress.”

There’s a pause for a moment, the quiet sounds of the graveyard stretch under the afternoon sunlight, and then Lily Evans inclines her head in agreement.

“Jim,” she calls, and Regulus feels Harry’s flinch all through his arm. Lily Evans jerks her head for her husband to join her and then Regulus feels the beginning of James Potter’s movement through Harry’s stiff shifts in position as James Potter circles around to join his wife.

As James Potter comes into view, Regulus is frankly appalled, because the man looks to be on the edge of a saunter, his shimmering cloak over one arm and his wand loose at his side. He seems insultingly casual about this entire situation. Entirely unbothered.

But then Regulus notices that James Potter’s expression doesn’t look very casual. No, James Potter is staring rather fixedly at Harry, sharp and serious, like he’s trying to see through or memorize every curve of Harry’s face. It must, Regulus supposes, be somewhat akin to looking into a very slightly inaccurate mirror. The similarity is… striking, and James Potter certainly looks struck by it.

Regulus very dearly hopes Harry is similarly struck, instead of struck hard enough to momentarily break again. Harry’s wand is already lowered as his father joins his mother, leaving Regulus and Lily Evans the only ones with their wands raised. Regulus isn’t surprised – he didn’t really expect Harry to be able, much less inclined, to be hostile to his parents – and it’s probably a good thing to appear non-hostile, since they want this to go well for them.

Lily Evans looks surprised as Harry turns around, her brows furrowing as she frowns slightly, but she doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t object or immediately demand answers for a deception.  

This is… going well, Regulus would argue. It certainly could be worse. He could be being handed over to the Ministry, or the Dark Lord, or having a frying pan thrown at his head again.

Or dead. He could be dead right now.

“Do you mind if I check for eavesdroppers?” Regulus asks politely, feeling marginally better now that he can see both Lily Evans and her husband at once. Her husband especially, though he’d prefer not having to look at his lost brother’s best friend at all.

Lily’s eyes turn back to him from Harry; she inclines her head again and slowly lowers her wand as Regulus carefully raises his. After Regulus has finished casting his spells – which quickly reveal they are the only four people in the graveyard – he lowers his wand as well, despite the tension still hanging in the air. Regulus watches Lily Evans, who dangerously watches him back, and he notes out of the corner of his eye that the two Potters are still watching each other.

Then, they are alone and their wands are all lowered, and Regulus hasn’t really the foggiest what to do now. This is much harder than he thought it would be. Regulus said he would manage this if Harry could not rise to the challenge, but running away is a much more appealing option suddenly. He’s not about to, but he can’t say that whilst facing down Lily Evans and her husband – his brother’s friends, both dearer to Sirius than Regulus ever was – the option isn’t very, very tempting.

But he wants to live… he wants to win… he wants to see Sirius again.

 

The mirror is missing. Just like the graves.

Somehow, the world has combined two of the simultaneously best and worst moments of Harry’s life. He is back again, in front of the Mirror of Erised, the first time he stepped into that darkened room and up to that silvery mirror with a heart full of curiosity that ended up aching.

And he is back again, on that snowy night he first stepped into Godric Hollow’s graveyard, where his parents lived and loved, to see where they lay dead with a curiosity that was much less innocent, ignorant, but a heart that was no less fragile and ached with everything he had ever wanted. Still holding on to its deepest and most desperate desire.

_(The Patronus turned.)_

But the graves are gone, and the mirror is missing, and Harry can still see his heart’s deepest and most desperate desire reflected back at him. Only… living… alive… in full colour and just… _real._ There is no glass to press his hands against, here. Should he press forward, he would fall through a barrier that wasn’t there, and reach out and touch his father for the first time in his life.

_(It was cantering back toward Harry across the surface of the water… It wasn’t a horse… It wasn’t a unicorn, either… It was a stag. It was shining brightly as the moon above… it was coming back to him…)_

James Potter does not look old enough to be a father, though. He is taller and broader than Harry, sharper in face and with different eyes, but exactly as similar to Harry as all the people and pictures and reflections and shades always said and showed. But he doesn’t look much older than Harry. He has none of the wistfulness, none of the faded longing or matured sacrifice of Harry’s dead father.

_(It stopped on the bank. Its hooves made no mark on the soft ground as it stared at Harry with its large, silver eyes.)_

James Potter is young and stunned, obviously as surprised by Harry as Harry’s racing heart is by him, and with a wary squint behind his rectangular glasses as he studies Harry. Suspicious and uncertain and too stunned to really hide it. He looks no older than Fred and George, younger than even Percy and Bill and Fleur. He doesn’t look like much of an adult at all, not a real one, much less a father.

_(Slowly, it bowed its antlered head.)_

And he is decades younger than the others. Decades younger than the Sirius and Remus that Harry knows… _knew_ and led to their dea… James Potter is closer in age to Regulus than the Sirius that Harry last remembers… that Harry last saw falling through the...

James Potter is nineteen years old.

_(“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him!”)_

And in two years…

_(“Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”)_

He would have been dead.

The Elder Wand shakes in Harry’s grip, violently, and it’s all Harry can do in the face of the man who died wandless to buy his wife and son as long as he could. Regulus is talking to Lily Potter – his mother, his _mother_ – but Harry can barely pay attention, even though it’s something out of a dream for Harry to hear an adult Lily Potter when she’s not… screaming for mercy… dying… or comforting him right before he walked to his own death at Voldemort’s hand.

All he can do is stare at his father, alive and well and young and _alive._

_(“You’ll… stay with me?”_

_“…Until the very end.”)_

James Potter – his father, his _father_ – is staring at him with a surprised mixture of suspicion and concern. Harry’s knuckles are aching around the wand that isn’t his, and he can feel the beginning of something pricking at his eyes. Maybe he is concerning, but he can’t quite care. He can’t stop himself.

How do you begin to start a conversation with someone who doesn’t know you, but would have loved you enough to die for you? How can Harry possibly explain… possibly express how much someone who is practically a stranger means to him…? How many times the silvery guard of Prongs watched over him and kept him safe? Even when Harry hadn’t even known what the stag really meant.

_(And he realized… “Prongs.”_

_But as his trembling fingertips stretched toward the creature, it vanished.)_

How will James Potter react to the son he never had? This person doesn’t know Harry, and looks at him with bewilderment and wariness, instead of with a kind smile towards a beloved son, silent and ghostly behind enchanted glass. How will this James Potter – this real, this _alive_ James Potter, who can’t even be twenty years old – react to Harry’s ridiculous and impossible story?

_(The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glow like lightning rods…)_

This is James Potter, a person, who doesn’t know Harry as Harry doesn’t really know him. They are strangers. And yet Harry’s heart is so full of love for this man he’s never met that he thinks it might be breaking. This is James Potter, a nineteen-year-old stranger who Harry loves more than anything except maybe the woman at his back, and Harry wants to cry.

He wants Ron to pull him back from this, sensible and trusting in long-learned bad feelings, to lead him away from living the rest of his life in front of something he can never have.

And he wants Hermione to remind him of logic, to tell him that this isn't his father he's seeing, that he must be mistaken somehow as he stares at a man pushing back the darkness.

He wants Ron and Hermione here; he wants them close again, his closest friends. He's so lost, here, and he wants the familiarity of the small family he managed to find for himself. People who know him, people _he_ knows. Who will tell him they can't hear the whispers of the Veil and pull him back, take him back into the world he left behind.

_(…and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut…)_

Harry lowers his wand, before he drops it. His fingers are trembling too hard to cast anything, and he cannot point a wand at this person. He can’t. It hurts him worse than just looking at his father does, which is terribly, even though Harry stares wide-eyed and desperate.

It is an addicting pain.

The mirror is missing, but some part of Harry deep down is afraid, hungry and terrified, that he’ll reach out and touch bluish glass. A wall. A dream. No matter how real and confused and guarded this complete stranger looks.

_(“…Stay close to me.”)_

Harry unconsciously moves, and brushes against Regulus. It startles him, inwardly, to be among people he has seen only as shades and ghosts, to touch another living person. It was always ghostly hands, just hovering over his shaking shoulders as he duelled for his life and warning him to run; it was always Harry reaching out towards the shade of a red-haired woman, his hand falling through hers as though her gentle and loving smile wasn’t there at all.

Brushing against Regulus, Harry now notices that Regulus is painfully stiff, and that his new companion seems to have stopped breathing entirely. Harry doesn’t know what to do about that; he doesn’t feel as though he’ll ever be able to take in enough air to breathe regularly again.

Harry… Harry doesn’t really know what happens. Either he intentionally presses his arm back against Regulus’ – for what, he doesn’t know – or he can’t quite manage to keep his balance with James Potter in front of him, looking at Harry the way he is.

Or maybe it’s just that Harry’s trying to reassure himself that he’s still in the world of the living. That by touching a warm hand and solid arm, Harry can reassure himself that he’s not in front of the Mirror of Erised again – that he’s not back in the forest again – or just dreaming. Maybe it’s that by knowing Regulus is alive, solid and warm, Harry can know for certain that he is alive too.

He is alive and this is real.

Regulus takes a sharp breath and the rigid tension all along his arm leaves, and Harry realizes suddenly, belatedly, that Regulus is almost as… lost? Uncertain? Anxious? Regulus is as frightened by this as he is. Regulus has been pulling and pushing Harry forward but…

“Well, to be honest,” Regulus says, his voice slightly higher and tighter than usual, “I’m not a very good Death Eater.”

Harry chokes on a disbelieving laugh. Partly at the fact that Regulus borrowed Harry’s terrible attempt at comfort, and partly because James Potter’s eyes widen, his lips purse, and he raises his eyebrows in a very taken-aback expression.

James has lowered his wand too, now, in response to Harry’s lowering of his. It’s resting loosely at one side, while the shimmering fabric of the Invisibility Cloak is folded over his arm. _(Use it well.)_ He’s standing tall but casual, ready but still comfortable, and he looks at Harry with a questioning, curious, and maybe bemused expression that suggests he really wasn’t expecting that statement.

“Actually pretty terrible at it,” Regulus adds, straightening at Harry’s side before asking, “Would you mind if we could have this discussion without needing eyes in the back of our heads to see both you and your husband at once? I’m not particularly partial to being surrounded and held at wandpoint… It tends to stifle conversational progress.”

James looks beyond Harry for a moment, lifting his chin to peer at the woman on the other side. Harry can’t help but stare and stare at every tilt of James’ head and shift of his expressions, at everything from the familiar shared curves of their faces to the untidy hair that Harry has never been able to make lay flat a day in his life. Harry watches as James exchanges some sort of silent communication, with James’ hazel eyes flickering towards Harry before he gives a decisive nod.

“Jim,” Lily Potter calls.

Harry cannot help the flinch that runs through all of him. He knows that voice; he recognizes that voice from silvery memories, Dementor chill, dreams and nightmares, and an impossible telephone conversation that he botched utterly.

Lily Potter is standing behind him. Lily Potter is standing behind him and Harry wants nothing more than to turn around and drink his fill of her – to step up to the glass of the mirror and stay there forever, to step up to a nightmarish creature of despair just to hear his mother’s voice again, even while she's dying, even though he hates it and it pains him and he never wants to hear it again. He does not feel ready for what is behind him, whether he sees glass or a shade, or the real thing.

_(He reached out a hand and felt the air behind him. If she was really there, he’d touch her, their reflections were so close together, but he felt only air – she and the others existed only in the mirror.)_

Harry focuses on the fresh air of a November afternoon, cool against his face and in his lungs. He focuses on the colours all around him, the ground beneath his feet, and the faint sounds of life all around. On James Potter’s changing expressions and horrifying youth, as the man that would be his father starts to walk around them, to join the woman who would be Harry’s mother. He focuses on Regulus’ arm against his side, and takes a deep breath.

He is alive and this is real.

_(“You’ve been so brave.”)_

As James Potter walks, Harry turns, and with another sharp breath, lays eyes on Lily Potter.

Like James, Lily looks like all the photographs and reflections and shades, but she is so much more real than those now. She is like James, too young to be a mother, too young to soon be dead – nineteen years old, and more pretty than breathtakingly beautiful like the sad, matured ghost Harry knows. She is barely, so very barely, older than Harry; a barely-grown girl, to James’ barely-grown boy, and far, _far_ too young to have died for him.

Her long hair is a vibrant dark red, braided tightly back, and it’s nothing like the paled strands that sat perfectly or floated around a ghostly face. Her brows are furrowed with confusion, her bright green eyes ( _Harry’s_ bright green eyes) are wide with surprise at seeing him _(her eyes are just like mine, he thought, edging a little closer to the glass)_ , and her lips aren’t tilted up in a gentle smile... They’re… pinched, in a tight frown… just like Aunt Petunia’s.

“Do you mind if I check for eavesdroppers?” Regulus asks, politely in a way that doesn’t really sound polite. He doesn’t really sound like permission has any bearing on what he’ll do.

Lily’s eyes leave Harry’s, and she slowly inclines her head. She keeps her eyes fixed on Regulus, lowering her wand as he raises his, and watches carefully as Regulus cast around for eavesdroppers. But as soon as Regulus’ wand has lowered again, her eyes flicker back to Harry’s.

Curious. Suspicious. A small hint of wonder, maybe, if Harry’s hopefulness isn’t fooling him.

_(He could not speak. His eyes feasted on her, and he thought that he would like to stand and look at her forever, and that would be enough.)_

“Well… we’re alone, then,” Regulus observes, his voice… mostly calm.

Lily and James both briefly look at Regulus, but then back to Harry again, like they can’t keep their eyes off him. Harry understands that. Even when Regulus speaks, it’s hard to focus. Suddenly, Harry can’t breathe again; actually, he has no idea if he’s breathing or not.

“Harry,” Regulus says.

Right, he can’t freeze up again. Harry takes in a breath; he told Regulus that he wouldn’t do this. He’s not ready for this at all, but he told Regulus that he would do this, for the both of them. So he could meet and save his parents, so Regulus could reunite with Sirius, so that Voldemort could die.

Move on; swallow the fear; step forward.

_(They seemed as scared as Harry, whose heart was now throwing itself against his ribs as though determined to escape the body he was about to cast aside.)_

This is not the end. This is not his end.

_(“I was, it seems… mistaken.”_

_“You weren’t.”)_

This is a beginning. This is not stepping forward into nothingness, but into everything and more. He had never expected to set off through the forest – with the shades of his loved ones at his side, expecting silence and darkness and nonexistence, placated by the idea he was simply joining them so that everyone else could live, pretending that there was some next great adventure waiting for him on the other side – and find himself face to face with… this.

He was ready to die… almost… He does not feel ready for this.

Green and hazel eyes, staring at him, with no mirror in between them now.

_(He looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear-)_

“My name is Harry… Harry Potter,” he says on a breath he’s not sure he has.

_(He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.)_

“I’m your son.”

This is not that. This is not the end; the end has passed him by. He is alive and this is real.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for the wait, please check out this most recent HP fic I've written. It's Time Travel (Peggy Sue style) and stars the beloved Malfoy family, with an Outsider!POV to the time-traveller. 
> 
> **[A New Beginning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6551137)** (HP) - Time Travel, One Shot. _Draco is acting differently, Narcissa is worried, Lucius is confused, and a meeting inside Madam Malkin's goes very differently from the way it happened the first time around._


	12. Flower, Stag, and Fawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And maybe also because if he thinks too much – or at all – on how quiet and ragged Harry sounded, like his saviour was admitting something deep and delicate and too important to say loudly or clearly, Regulus’ chest twinges painfully again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated birthday, Harry Potter. (Aug 6th, '16) 
> 
> Sorry for the wait, everyone. But hey, I'm back. Might fix this chapter up a bit later.

“Well, I would have been,” Harry amends quietly. So quietly that Regulus doubts Lily Evans and James Potter heard it, or were able to discern the words from his saviour’s hoarseness.

Regulus is going to hex his saviour at this rate.

They had an opening statement for this moment; it was even a good opening statement. Regulus had been quite proud of their opening statement, even, but… apparently Harry decided he had a better one. Or just entirely forgot what words were in the middle of meeting his parents, which Regulus reluctantly supposes he can’t really blame Harry for. He knew this might happen; this is why he planned for this.

But… still… plans or not, it is all Regulus can do not to hide his face in his hands. Best laid plans always fall astray somehow, when he tries. At best, the fallout leave Regulus feeling like he’s eleven years old again, specifically when Sirius has said the worst possible and most embarrassing thing to say at a family gathering. Again. And on purpose, because it’s apparently amusing to send Uncle Cygnus into a choking fit.

Blunt and awful opening statements were something that Regulus most decidedly has not missed about Sirius, and apparently those can something pass between godfather and godson. Morgana help him.

Regulus focuses on his frustration – for the love of all magic, this was going fairly _well_ – and how to salvage that opening statement into something moderately believable and trustworthy. Anyway, he works better when he’s stressed and angry, he thinks, or at least he’s got more motivation to _do something_ when he’s stressed and angry.

So he focuses on being stressed and angry and _on a time limit here_ – if all this stress and anger isn’t actually somehow useful to him, his entire life has been a lie and he will channel his mother and _scream_ – and channels every scrap of interpersonal interaction and manipulation he’s ever witnessed or put into action to try and figure something out.

And maybe also because if he thinks too much – or at all – on how quiet and ragged Harry sounded, like his saviour was admitting something deep and delicate and too important to say loudly or clearly, Regulus’ chest twinges painfully again. Harry said it like it hurt. Like his admission was the breaking of something Taboo, and Regulus doesn’t know what to do about that.

Dear Morgana, he doesn’t really know what to do with _Harry_ most of the time.

Neither Lily Evans nor James Potter has anything to say to Harry’s statement at first. Both of their eyes widen slightly, and they both stare hard at Harry, even harder than they were staring before. They look disbelieving, on the edge of stunned, and Regulus assumes they’re doing what he’s been doing since their arrival: cataloguing the obvious and remarkable similarities between Harry and his parents. Only consciously, this time.

Or perhaps cataloguing the similarities between Harry and Lily Evans. They were already aware that Harry is Potter, which is obvious at first glance – Regulus guessed it at first glance, after all. The Evans parts, however, take a bit more observation. They’re obvious once one knows to look, which convinced Regulus that Harry wasn’t some bastard of Great-Aunt Dorea’s husband’s line.

For lack of anything else to do and no apparent better options, Regulus jams his elbow into Harry’s side, to break his saviour’s frozen state and hopefully prompt him to _fix this._ It’s hardly as subtle as he’d like – both Lily and James visibly notice him doing it – but it was either that or stomp on Harry’s foot. Regulus wants to avoid overbalancing and falling over or swooning, if possible.

Idiotic, impulsive, curs _ed,_ emotional _Gryffindors._

Harry ducks his head, obviously realizing his hideously clumsy mistake and suitably ashamed of it – _good_ – but he does not speak. He doesn’t immediately launch into an explanation that will save their credibility. Too unsettled, too emotional, too overwhelmed, probably, to do anything. It’s as understandable as it is infuriating.

“…Time magic?” James Potter guesses, before Regulus can come up with saving grace… or any grace. The man’s eyes – hazel, not green – are squinting behind his glasses, narrowed with calculation of a kind that Regulus prefers not to attribute to his brother’s best friend.

Lily Evans looks suspicious now too, her expression also closing off. That is… not good. Still far better than Regulus’ worst-case scenarios, at least, but that doesn’t particularly say much for their case, as Regulus’ worst imaginings easily reach terrible heights. He has no desire to become a prisoner of hostile Light wizards with mistrust and misplaced – or worse, deserved – vengeance in their eyes.

“Time magic is illegal… difficult,” James Potter continues, obviously seeing something in either Regulus or Harry’s faces – probably Harry’s. He’s frowning at them, although thankfully neither he nor Lily have raised their wands again. “…And dangerous.”

Regulus very, _very_ carefully does not scoff. Dangerous as opposed to _what_ exactly?

Harry still hasn’t managed to say anything else. Regulus’ saviour seems to be trying and failing to recollect himself. The shuttered expressions on Lily Evans and James Potter’s faces cannot be aiding his concentration and comfort.

So… it’s up to Regulus then. At the very least, that it’s up to him is according to plan. Well… the back-up one. But _still,_ at least there still is a plan. Yes, all according to plan.

“I know that this is hard to believe,” Regulus says, projecting as much steadiness and knowledge into his voice as he can, “but we have proof... and…” Well, might as well start paying back that Life Debt in kind, since it’s not exactly going anywhere. “I vouch for him… entirely. Hear us out with an open mind, if you will. This… is important.”

Neither James Potter nor Lily Evans look particularly impressed by that. The words of a Death Eater probably hold next to no value to them, as much as a Light wizard’s would to Regulus, but Regulus is banking on having Sirius as a brother and Harry as a companion to buy him _some_ grace with them. Unless Sirius has spent the past decade or so… well… _blackening_ Regulus’ name irreparably.

Sirius wouldn’t go that far, Regulus is sure… mostly.

This is _important._ They _need_ to listen.

“I’m not sure I want to open my mind to the words of someone admitting to time-meddling,” James Potter says mildly. His expression is still closed off, but his eyes keep flickering back to Harry, and there’s something… there… in his eyes that Regulus can’t read. “No offense meant, but my mother warned me about that sort of thing. Some things are best left alone.”

Regulus tells himself that he’s imagining the slight stress on the “my” of “ _my_ mother”. As much as it grates on him, he will not be hostile to James Potter. Not only is it inappropriate for the situation and future plans and hopes, but in a one-on-one fight, Regulus is fairly certain he’d lose.

It’s either he tells himself that or think on that last phrase.

“It was an accident.”

Regulus squashes the urge to startle at Harry finally speaking up and looks beside him to his saviour. Harry still doesn’t look well, or even remotely at ease, but he is managing to look steadily at James Potter. He somehow makes the common excuse sound more like a helpless statement of fact, rather than a defence, especially when he adds quietly:

“I don’t really know how it happened… and I don’t think it’s fixable.”

Harry finally speaking up does some good. Neither of Harry’s parents look impressed now, of course, but Lily Evans looks more considering than suspicious and James Potter’s eyes and expression soften. Regulus brushes his arms against Harry’s again, in approval and support.

Regulus has considered the dangers of meddling in time himself, of course, but… well… since he was apparently supposed to die yesterday, he personally hopes there’s no bloody way of “fixing” anything. And at that thought he’s been repeatedly casting away, his chest clenches uncomfortably again. Because those thoughts are always followed by a chain of horror that refuses to be dismissed permanently.

Wet, rotting, grasping hands… reaching out and dragging him down into black, cold waters.

A horrifying, mindless, undignified, _secret_ death.

The squeezing in Regulus’ chest does not let up as Regulus again skims over what little Harry told him of the accident that brought him here. All Harry has really said is that he died and woke up here. Regulus suspects, from Harry’s wording, that it was a curse, but he still doesn’t _know_ how Harry died, or why, and can’t really understand how Harry is so… unbothered by his own death.

If Regulus thinks too long about that cave, he feels like he’s dying on the inside. Again and again and again and again. At the mere thought. He doesn’t know how Harry can stand it.

Or is Harry just dismissing the horror for later as well?

Regulus doesn’t really know how Harry is doing any of this, really, despite how _terribly_ awful he is at it all. As unhappy as Regulus is with Harry’s inept fumbling, he supposes that the incompetence might seem mildly endearing and more genuine… and he personally cannot fathom facing his own mother at the moment. At least Regulus’ mother knows he exists at this time, but… then again… Lily Evans isn’t _anything_ like Walburga Black.

Regulus very carefully watches Harry try to summon up more words, silently urging Harry to continue his recollection of himself… of the saviour that appeared in the cave. And maybe also as though staring long enough, observing closely enough, will give Regulus all the answers he’s searching for.

What happened to Lily Evans and James Potter? Did the Potters die? Are they standing over Sirius’ future grave at the moment? Whose graves are they standing over? Why seven Horcruxes? Why _living_ Horcruxes? Why and _how_ does Harry have a curse scar shaped like _that?_

He also has to somehow prevent Harry from having another breakdown, of course. And get Harry to give a decent enough performance, not even an explanation, as not to get them cursed _and_ gain some trust from two people who have no reason to trust strangers and quite a few excellent reasons not to trust Death Eaters.

“What kind of proof do you have?” Lily Evans asks. She doesn’t sound _un_ friendly, exactly, but the smiling politeness worn under the Slug Club dress code is long gone, which doesn’t bode well.

Regulus takes a glance towards Harry – who feels, by his arm, to be made of stiffness, stress, and tension – and takes a steady, deep, silent breath.

Would now be a terrible time to admit that he doesn’t know which plan he’s following? Yes, he thinks so. He really doesn’t know what he’s doing; maybe he made too many plans and isn’t sure how to apply them. He thinks… he thinks he needs something urgent, something attention-grabbing, something that stresses exactly how important Harry and his information are.

“I have defected from the Death Eaters,” Regulus says.

His voice wavers under the weight of saying that aloud, buckles under the terrifying truth, but… it probably has to be said. Oh, this is such a terrible choice, going against the Dark Lord, but better dying for his family’s freedom than a life underfoot and a step away from the wrong end of an Unforgiveable.

Like Sirius. Regulus, although he will never say it aloud, wants to be like Sirius. (He has always wanted to be like Sirius.)

Lily Evans and James Potter’s eyes widen, proving that Regulus did, in fact, just say that incredibly stupid statement aloud for all to hear. They look appropriately stunned, and Regulus can only hope he looks sure and composed instead of similarly surprised. He remains steady in the face of their disbelief, only pressing his arm very slightly harder into Harry’s own for no relevant reason.

People do not defect from the Death Eaters, or from the Dark Lord’s service in general. They just don’t. When the Dark Lord makes them swear a lifetime of service, it’s a life of service or no life at all – the Dark Lord and his more ferocious followers make terrible examples of those who try.

Regulus’ try would have failed if not for Harry.

“…Defected?” James Potter repeats disbelievingly.

“Yes,” Regulus says.

Perhaps another waver snuck into his voice, because James Potter’s eyes squint again as last year’s Head Boy asks, “And does your boss know that you’ve quit?”

Regulus stamps down violently on the burning feeling trying to worm its way to his face. In this very moment, he hates his brother’s best friend more than he has ever hated anyone, which would be impressive if it wasn’t annoyingly humiliating.

“…No,” Regulus says reluctantly.

If the Dark Lord _knew_ that Regulus has defected, say by doing something stupidly Gryffindorish like saying it to his face in a crowded room of Death Eaters and all the supporting pureblood families, Regulus wouldn’t exactly be _alive_ at the moment. Regulus doesn’t give a damn about James Potter’s opinion, whatever that opinion may be. The Dark Lord not knowing where Regulus is and what he’s doing is nothing by a very, _very_ good thing.

Not that Regulus’ plan of defection was much safer, given his new Life Debt, but _still._

“That’s…” Lily Evans looks for a word, can’t seem to find anything appropriate, and settles on, “…interesting.” But her steady, slightly unnerving, green stare still doesn’t let up. “But that’s not exactly the sort of proof I was expecting.”

“…It’s related,” Regulus says. He feels slightly unbalanced here, on the wrong foot, and staying collected in the face of his own treachery is a treacherous feat – there are so many horrible things that could come of his defection, and no positives guaranteed. But he _is_ collected. He _is._

Regulus clears his throat, leaning slightly against Harry, and says the horror that’s been sitting on the edge of his tongue since he confirmed his suspicions – the one he hadn’t dared to speak aloud, the one which merely writing a note for left him shaking, the one that almost killed him.

“The Dark Lord has made himself effectively immortal.”

Then he opens his eyes, which somehow closed, and takes a shuddering breath. Then another, because Lily Evans and James Potter are still staring disbelievingly at him.

“…I beg your pardon,” Lily Evans says flatly.

“Have you ever heard of the term ‘Horcrux’?” Regulus says.

Lily Evans’ lips purse and James Potter makes that hideous squinting expression behind his glasses again. Honestly, the man should either get a pair of spectacles that actually work for him or just cease and desist that ridiculous and discomforting staring. It’s undignified.

The pair glance at each other and exchange a _look_ that Regulus unfairly cannot read.

“…No,” James Potter says slowly. “I’m afraid we haven’t.”

Regulus isn’t surprised, so he doesn’t stare in return or do something as awful as gape, or quash down some other expression at something he was expecting. Horcruxes are hardly common knowledge, even in the circles Regulus exists in – unless one has a stubborn interest in immortality and a tolerance for the Dark and access to the blacker parts of libraries rivalling the Blacks’. The Dark Lord did, Regulus did, but… a Potter and Lily Evans?

This is exactly why leaving everything to Light wizards would have been a disaster.

“It’s extreme Dark magic,” Regulus says, thinking of a way to word this that is not quite so horrifying as the ritual described in his family’s worst grimoires. “Where a wizard uses an act of pure evil – such as murder – to split their soul and hide a piece of their soul in an object. This object binds their soul to the land of the living… making them effectively immortal.”

Regulus is not exactly sure _how_ the object keeps a person alive, though, especially if their body is destroyed or something similar. Is it similar to Inferi? Or the regenerative healing of a Philosopher’s Stone? The books didn’t say, but perhaps Harry might know something, with his casual and apparently extensive knowledge on the Dark Lord’s. Regulus makes a mental note to ask when he gets a chance to properly interrogate Harry – it’s getting to be an annoyingly long list of notes.

Much to Regulus’ somewhat delirious sense of amusement, James Potter looks much like someone has struck him with a Stunning Spell. Lily Evans, on the other hand, has turned a very faint shade of green. Regulus fully understands their horror, but hopefully they are not so easily overwhelmed, because as Regulus as recently learned to equal if not greater horror, there’s more.

“The Dark Lord has made five of these objects,” Regulus says.

In the back of his mind, Regulus wonders what Harry will think if his father is suddenly ill. Lily Evans seems more stoic, barely, perhaps her Muggle heritage is shielding her from the true horror of the Dark Lord’s actions, but her husband looks ill.

“ _Five?_ ” James Potter demands, incredulous.

“He’s terrified of death,” Harry answers, before Regulus can get a sound out.

Regulus closes his mouth, momentarily caught by the odd idea that the Dark Lord is _terrified_ of something. It makes sense, but… it’s difficult to imagine. Fear is the Dark Lord’s horrifyingly efficient tool and massive weapon of chaos, not his bane… not a… weakness.

But… how many times did Regulus question what sort of madman would make a Horcrux? Not only is it extremely Dark magic of the absolute worst sort, but splitting your soul hardly sounded like a good idea in any way. And the Dark Lord has made _five_ of these unstable objects – soul-splitting is a largely unpracticed and therefore largely experimental and uncertain art, according to the lore and grimoires that Regulus found. An act of madness, certainly, but… perhaps also an act of fear? Foolish terror underneath monstrous selfishness and apathy?

He can’t see it. Not really.

“Horcruxes can be anything,” Regulus says to begin persuading the Potters to this urgent cause, and very carefully takes notice of the shiver that runs through Harry. _Living things included, apparently,_ though the Potters definitely don’t need to know that bit. “And can be hidden anywhere. And are almost impossible to destroy.”

It is somewhat satisfying to see the concerned expressions on James Potter and Lily Evans’ faces, with a faint hint of panic as they exchange a look between them. Regulus understands exactly what they are thinking here. If this is true, how will they know what the Horcruxes are? How will they find them? How will they destroy them? All this at once, with only a number to work from, how can one possibly proceed and succeed?

 _This_ , Regulus is pleased to think, _is where his saviour comes in._

“I only recently learned of one of these objects and made an attempt at it. My attempt would have failed, if I was not unexpectedly assisted by Harry, here,” Regulus summarizes. The Potters definitely do not need to know about the months of stress and panic and research and then his near-death. “Though you may doubt his origins and think what you will of the idea, he has knowledge of all five objects, including their histories and locations, and how to destroy them.”

Harry grows increasingly tense over the course of Regulus’ introduction – which may not fall as desired, but is without doubt, at the very least, far better than Harry’s introduction. Just the thought of it makes Regulus want to _hex_ something, and worse, he knows he’d be kicking himself if he actually did hex Harry because his incredibly tense, uncomfortable, tenacious saviour wouldn’t actually deserve it.

“With his invaluable information, we can kill the Dark Lord,” Regulus finishes, daringly.

The words tingle as they leave his lips, leaving a buzzing in his head and a thrum in his chest. Because Harry has given them the key to ending the war, of ending the pointless destruction and death and chaos, and it’s _so very_ exciting to have an end revealing itself and a solution in hand.

However, for some odd reason, an odd tremor goes through Harry. Regulus turns to glance at his saviour and sees Harrys staring at him, not wide-eyed but a little… disbelieving? Great Morgana, what now? Why? Did Harry think that Regulus was somehow _not_ going to take this information and _fly with it?_ It absolutely cannot be that Harry has some moral objection to the extremely necessary death of the Dark Lord; that would be ridiculous, injust, and a waste of everything.

Regulus adds it to the list of things he will pry out of Harry later.

James Potter looks between them, disbelieving and slightly ill-looking and searching for something. “Well…” he finally says, after a brief round of silence through the graveyard. “That’s… horrifying. You can… prove this, somehow?”

Regulus tries to respond, but wands cross inside his mind and he ends up looking towards Harry instead. Their proof will be best coming from Harry – whether speaking of the Horcruxes themselves or proving himself to be their son – if his saviour can manage it.

Harry looks back at him, looking… relatively better, but still just generally… lost.

Regulus lets his fingers close slightly around Harry’s, just for a moment, in mutual reassurance.

“…There’s a Horcrux hidden at Hogwarts,” Harry says.

Blacks do not gape and Regulus does not startle, but he would _very much like to._ Where was this coming from? Regulus assumed that Harry would attempt to prove himself as their son, endear himself to the Potters, like all their practice.

If they were just going to let Light wizards get their hands on a Horcrux, Regulus would have just summoned Kreacher and tossed over the locket.

“At _Hogwarts_?” Lily Evans repeats.

Yes, that surprised Regulus too, when Harry gave him a quick overview of the Horcrux locations. It’s actually interestingly ironic that the “lost” diadem of Ravenclaw has been unknowingly returned to Hogwarts, although it’s not at all surprising that the Dark Lord managed to find such another such prestigious object to host a part of his soul. Yes, anything _can_ be a Horcrux, but Regulus might just give up if the Dark Lord hid a part of his soul in a nice, random rock.

But, more importantly, what _was_ Harry doing? Emotionally understandable, of course, but Regulus does not enjoy having his best laid plans ignored completely. This has to be Sirius’ fault somehow, Regulus knows – inappropriately influencing his godson with his terrible ways.

“Ravenclaw’s diadem,” Harry answers.

“Ravenclaw’s _lost_ diadem?” James Potter says, gesturing vaguely over his untidy hair as though trying to wordlessly describe the item. He sounds disbelieving, but less suspicious and more tiredly incredulous, which Regulus supposes is a good thing. Probably.

“ _Yes,_ ” Regulus answers for Harry. He too wants the full story as to how the Dark Lord got his hands on an artefact that’s been lost for a thousand years, if Harry actually knows the story to begin with, but they don’t need to dwell on the comparably unimportant.

James Potter squints at him behind his glasses and Lily Evans’ lips purse, and Regulus sort of regrets speaking. But he also doesn’t, because they can either focus on the fact an ancient treasure has been found or the fact that the Dark Lord has turned it into a vessel for his soul. Whatever James Potter thinks is more important, Regulus disagrees and prefers to pay attention to the latter.

“It’s in the Room of Hidden Things,” Harry says.

Regulus stops scowling at James Potter and blinks. The _what?_

“…I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with that room,” Lily Evans says, while her husband looks confused.

“It’s a form of the Room of Requirement,” Harry says, then when the air of confusion does not abate in the slightest, adds, “The Come and Go Room? In the seventh floor left corridor? … Opposite that tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet?”

Harry, looking bewildered now, looks towards Regulus for help and Regulus can’t do anything but stare blankly back at him. The _what?_ Opposite the tapestry of _what?_

“You walk past it three times while thinking of the room you need and a door appears?” Harry tries, looking just at Regulus now. “And it fills whatever your requirements are?”

Regulus just shakes his head gently. That sounds incredibly useful but he’s _never_ heard of it.

Harry’s shoulders slump a little, which is infinitely better than being stiff with tension in Regulus’ opinion, but he doesn’t look genuinely defeated, just surprised that none of them have heard about this place even in passing. Harry looks back towards his parents, still anxious at their presence, but more casual and comfortable with them then he’s been thus far.

“Well… that’s where it is,” Harry says. “Volde- Tom hid all his Horcruxes places that were significant to him or with his followers.”

Regulus tries to imagine how that cave is significant beyond being a hiding place for a Horcrux. His thoughts immediately fall to the dozens of the Inferi hidden in the black waters and decides that whether or not he does want to know, he doesn’t want to think about it. Not right now. Not yet.

Nor does he want to get into Harry repeatedly calling the Dark Lord _“Tom”._ Harry needs to stop that.

“And if we go to this Room of Hidden Things,” Lily Evans says slowly, “we’ll find this lost diadem of Ravenclaw… and how will we know it’s a… Horcrux?”

Harry opens his mouth to answer and… after a few seconds… shuts it. He looks strangely panicked. Not just anxious, but actually panicked, and Regulus cannot fathom why. Dark magic reeks, if one goes looking and is familiar for the low thrum of it, and… it’s not something most Light wizards would ever be able to discern without some work. Does Harry think that James Potter and Lily Evans would not be able to discern it for themselves? Or are Horcruxes on another level entirely?

Regulus has not had the chance to properly study the locket yet.

“Dark magic is detectable,” Regulus answers for Harry, keeping his eyes strictly on James Potter and Lily Evans, his fingers wrapping around Harry’s in reassurance and a bit of _don’t you have a breakdown on me, right now._ “And… Horcruxes are… difficult to destroy.” Regulus squeezes Harry’s hand, then lets go. “Right, Harry?”

Harry’s panic fades and he returns to them, looking at Regulus.

“…Yes,” he says slowly. “Basilisk venom… will do it… and Fiendfyre… and…” Harry trails off, then says, “Basilisk venom and Fiendfyre are the known methods. The container has to be… damaged beyond repair.”

Regulus chest squeezes unpleasantly, and he tells himself it’s at the thought of priceless, magical-historical artifacts being completely ruined to make the Dark Lord mortal again.

“It’ll probably be cursed somehow,” Harry says, growing steadier with every word. “His Horcruxes are usually cursed to the touch… or if you wear them… or just… stay around them for prolonged periods of time. It’s… not good.”

“Cursed how?” Regulus demands immediately.

 _Oh, Morgana. Oh, Morgana, please no._ He’s sent his house elf off to his home with a cursed and extremely Dark magical object. Will it harm Kreacher? Will it harm Mother? Harry has confirmed that Kreacher survives for the next sixteen years or so, at least, but how has Regulus risked his family by sending the locket there? He never ever _considered_ the possibility!

“Uh, possession,” Harry says, giving Regulus a concerned look, “is one of them… over a prolonged period of time – at least for the diary. Mood and personality changes for the worse, also over a while, if worn, for the locket. One of them, the ring, has some sort of degradation curse if worn.”

Regulus relaxes minutely, mind still racing. He’ll have to remove the locket from Grimmauld Place as soon as a good opportunity appears. Harry would have said something if the locket harmed Kreacher somehow, wouldn’t he? That can’t be one of the secrets Harry is keeping.

He looks up to see James Potter and Lily Evans exchanging another unreadable look, before James Potter steps forward slightly. “So… say we believe you… about these Horcruxes,” the other Potter says. “Say this proof checks out… where do you think we should go from here?”

Regulus’ chest squeezes again, slightly painful, with the familiar and relieving feeling of triumph. _Yes, Morgana, thank you._ Because that’s an in if he’s ever heard one. That’s the beginnings of a bridge, one that they can build on if they don’t accidentally burn it.

“We need shelter, support, and our identities kept secret,” Regulus says. “Harry’s identity and circumstances obviously cannot be known and… my disappearance will have my family and the Dark Lord under the impression that I am dead. Which is… for the best, I believe.”

“…Dead,” James Potter repeats flatly.

“In the performance of my service or by accident,” Regulus agrees with a hard look. Surely James Potter is not unaware of the realities of war and the casualties among the Dark Lord’s forces; Regulus will simply be one of many, never having been important or significant, much less in comparison to his dear cousin. “It will not be a surprise.”

It hurts to say aloud, but not nearly as much as the simple truth of it does. And that is nothing still in comparison to how his faked death could have been reality, had Harry not intervened and prevented Regulus’ stupid, secret, insignificant death.

“There are conditions, however,” Regulus continues over his pain. “As I’m sure you have as well.”

James Potter’s stare hardens, but he nods.

“Firstly, we would prefer that Albus Dumbledore is not informed of any of this,” Regulus says flatly. “If he must be, then he will not be involved. We will not work with him and we will not work _for_ him; whatever your opinions of him are, I do not trust the man. I do not trust him to have my best interests or _Harry’s_ best interests in mind.”

James Potter looks surprised, but also… not. Perhaps surprised at the vehemence, but not at the content, and Lily Evans looks the same. They do not look like they will argue with him, which is good, because Regulus has a poor opinion of Albus Dumbledore – a very, _very_ poor opinion, one that has been developing for years without being spoken; Regulus cannot really even _begin_ to describe his secret, mostly repressed hatred for Albus Dumbledore – and he will not exchange one sworn service for another if he can help it. And he is not fighting for solely himself, here, which helps enormously.

He's... never been particularly good at standing up for himself... but... for others, he can manage.

At Regulus’ side, Harry also looks surprised. No, not surprised, really – his expression does not look anything like James Potter’s reluctant acceptance. Harry looks _stunned_. Regulus’ savior looks like someone hit him with a Stunning Spell and froze him in that moment; Harry looks like he cannot believe what Regulus is saying for him in the slightest. Did Harry really think that Regulus would not take him seriously?

Regulus looks back to James Potter, chin held high and expression as firm as he can make it. “You will be our go-between with Albus Dumbledore if you decide to involve the man. You will _keep him out_ of our business,” he insists, an old rage stirring in his stomach. “And if you are absolutely incapable of telling the old cretin to busy himself with the war he has failed to prevent, then I will see him but he _will not_ go near Harry.”

Now James Potter and Lily Evans look surprised. So does Harry, at a quick glance. Regulus can really see the resemblance now, honestly, with all three Potters wearing the same expression more or less. But Regulus only fixes them with that old rage brewing for the _great_ Albus Dumbledore.

“This is not negotiable,” he says. “I’ll work with you, but I will _not_ work with him.”

As much as he resents James Potter, Regulus does not resent him half as much as the Headmaster.

“…Your other conditions?” Lily Evans asks, bright eyes narrowed; the first to recover herself.

Regulus takes a silent deep breath. “You have a traitor in your Order,” he informs them. “Deal with him how you will, but _deal with him._ He must not be informed of my presence or Harry’s existence, much less anything more.”

“Who?” Lily Evans demands.

Regulus tears his eyes off her and looks James Potter dead in the eye. “Peter Pettigrew,” he says.

James Potter’s expression, which has circled between curious and amused and confused and suspicious, goes instantly cold. It is an expression that Regulus has never seen on his brother’s best friend before, having largely avoided the obnoxious boys. The closest reference Regulus has is Harry’s suddenly dark expression at the mere mention of Petunia Evans’ husband, but… this is worse.

“What proof do you have of that?” James Potter demands.

“I don’t,” Regulus says, looking towards Harry with a flurry of something that is _not_ desperation.

It is not that Regulus is scared. It's simply that Regulus knows he needs James Potter's support, as much as he hates it, and knows who is the better dueler between them, as much as he hates that too.

Harry’s expression has also gone cold and the anxiety of Horcruxes has been replaced with whatever he wore while walking down that Muggle street. “He _betrayed_ you to Vold- to _You-Know-Who,_ ” Harry says. “The both of you. You hid under the Fidelius and made him Secret Keeper and that _rat_ gave you up. October thirty-first, 1981.”

 _Oh,_ Regulus thinks, mind running over the possibilities that open with this new information. _Oh,_ he thinks, because the possibilities opening are terrible at best. Nothing good would have befallen Lily Evans and James Potter that night… only just under two years from now.

He does not want to be right about his earlier wonderings. It’s unusual and unlikely, but Regulus actually _does not want_ to be right.

Harry doesn’t tell him _anything_ apparently.

James Potter stares at Harry, eyes wide but thoughts hidden, before saying, “…Rat?”

Harry takes a steady, deep breath. “Your best friends are Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew,” he says, his voice only wavering slightly on the last name. “The Whomping Willow was planted the year you came to Hogwarts because Remus is a werewolf; touching a knot on the tree freezes it and at its base is a tunnel that leads to the Shrieking Shack, where Remus spent the full moon.”

It would be a dent to Regulus’ pride to look as surprised as he feels at the moment; it really wouldn’t do for Lily Evans and James Potter to see him looking as surprised as they are at Harry’s words. Their eyes widened again, and while Lily Evans’ eyes quickly narrow, James Potter has gone stiff and slightly paled. Regulus absolutely refuses to look half that stupid at his own companion’s words.

He had his suspicions about Lupin’s chronic illness, of course, but it’s another thing entirely for Harry to come outright and say that the older boy is a werewolf. Regulus did not know that was the Willow’s purpose; he thought it was a Herbology project the Headmaster was happy to let endanger students. Suddenly, all those screams that came from the Shrieking Shack make sense, and Regulus admires the cleverness as much as he cannot quite believe that a werewolf was let into Hogwarts at all.

Beauxbatons is far more famed for accommodating nonhumans, and werewolves are both dangerous and disliked in their magical community.

Trying to reconcile that gangly prefect that shadowed his brother everywhere with one of the most infamous and feared Dark creatures is a terribly difficult mental exercise, though. Regulus cannot even really commit himself to it, even, as he’s too busy keeping his surprise and scowl off his face and trying to ponder _the Dark Lord attacking_ Lily Evans and James Potter. He does not want to suddenly have to revaluate his view of Lupin.

“He tried to keep it secret, but you found out, and decided to become Animagi to help him through his transformations,” Harry continues, more confident now that he’s speaking, or maybe… maybe just edged on anger. “You succeeded in your fifth year.”

Regulus, who had just decided that attempting to cast Mastery Transfiguration on himself is exactly the sort of thing that Sirius would think is a fantastic idea, has to swallow an actual exclamation. Dear Morgana, _succeeded?_ Regulus has always known his brother is brilliant, has had his own lack of equal brilliance shoved in his face at every moment, but an Animagus at sixteen?

“You’re a stag,” Harry says to his father. His face painfully open and painful to see. “Sirius is a large, black dog; he looks like a Grim. … Pettigrew is a rat.”

Perhaps this is inappropriately amusing, but suddenly, Kreacher’s insistence that Sirius was hiding a pet in his room because of the massive amounts of black fur mysteriously being shed makes an annoying amount of sense. If their situation were not so tense, Regulus would definitely wish to imitate his mother and do what she did then: yell at Sirius and then collapse onto the parlour sofa, ordering Kreacher to bring her the sherry.

Why is his annoyingly brilliant brother _exactly_ the sort of idiot to become an illegal Animagus?

Harry takes another deep breath, anger practically seething off him, then says like he’s repeating a saying off by heart, “Messyrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs are proud to present the Marauder’s Map.” After a brief pause, in which no one speaks or really dares to breathe, he quietly adds, “The Map is locked in a drawer in Filch’s office at the moment, I think.”

Why is Regulus the sort of idiot not to _notice_ that his brother became an illegal Animagus? Beyond, of course, how Sirius ran away when he was sixteen and the two of them hadn’t really even been on antagonistic speaking terms for years. Regulus feels like the thickest fool to ever walk the face of the Earth, to have immediately dismissed those ridiculous nicknames as absolutely nothing!

Padfoot and Prongs! _Oh, Morgana…_

James Potter is now staring at Harry with a stunned and bewildered expression, like he had the floor knocked out from underneath him. He looks almost enchanted, really, staring at Regulus’ impossible savior. Shocked, slightly afraid, suspicious and disbelieving; too many flickering expressions to name. It’s a terrible look on him, those wide eyes and his mouth gaping open, and Regulus is absolutely not taking any joy out of it.

Lily Evans, on the other hand, is looking back and forth between her husband and her son. Her eyes are narrowed, still, her lips pursed, and she seems to be thinking hard about all his sudden information. Her wand is twitching at her side and Regulus runs through a few spells in his mind.

“As I _said,_ ” Regulus says in intervention, drawing James Potter’s attention back to him, “deal with him _how you will._ Whether he is a traitor or not, I would prefer to keep our involvement to a select few – the two of you and Sirius – _he_ is not to be involved.”

“You… want to involve Sirius,” James Potter says slowly.

Regulus has to resist rolling his eyes… or scoffing… or hexing the previous Head Boy. Of course he wants to involve Sirius; beyond his Life Debt to Harry and general need for Harry’s cooperation and happiness, Sirius is Regulus’ only reason for being here. Admittedly, help with hunting Horcruxes wouldn’t be amiss, but they don’t _need_ help from Light wizards to do what _they_ never even noticed.

 _He was my brother before he was yours,_ Regulus doesn’t say, trying his utmost not to glare at James Potter and probably failing terribly. _And that still means something to me even if it doesn’t mean much to him._

“Yes,” Regulus says.

James Potter doesn’t seem to know what to say, but Lily Evans steps forward. Her green eyes are not narrowed, her lips are not pursed in suspicious, but rather, she’s smiling… in a very faint sort of way. But… not in the kind, charming Lily Evans sort of way… or a gentle, friendly Lily Evans sort of way. More like the exact expression Harry was wearing when he told Regulus to sit.

Regulus is… mostly sure that’s a good sign?


	13. Like Cats and Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a terribly strange feeling, allowing himself to hope and things actually going well for him. Regulus thinks it’s a nice feeling, but it’s also a vaguely uncomfortable one. There’s a catch, here somewhere; there always is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... hi.
> 
> EDIT: THERE ARE SO MANY COMMENTS FROM LAST CHAPTER TO ANSWER. IF THERE WAS EVER A PUSH TO UPDATE FASTER, THIS IS IT, OH MY GOD. It means a lot, though, thanks for taking the time to say something, people. <3

 “You’ll understand, of course, that we’ll have to verify everything you’ve told us,” Lily Evans says, very politely. “And we’ll have to be talking a _lot_ of this over, but… I think we can… cooperate with each other until…” Her face screws up a little, her hands moving about a little, as she searches for a phrase and settles on, “All parties have figured out what the h… exactly… is going on.”

 Well, that seems entirely reasonable to Regulus. He allows himself a visible sigh of reprieve, because the rush of relief moving through him is far too much to physically contain at the moment. Oh, he was _so_ worri- _concerned,_ not worried, _concerned_ that these Light wizards were going to be aggressively mistrusting or misplacingly vengeful… or worse.

 It’s a terribly strange feeling, allowing himself to hope and things actually going well for him. Regulus thinks it’s a nice feeling, but it’s also a vaguely uncomfortable one. There’s a catch, here somewhere; there always is. Unless… for once… there’s just… not? That’s so very strange, if so. 

 “Um, I don’t think that last bit’s ever going to happen,” Harry says awkwardly. “I mean… I don’t…” He looks at Regulus for assistance. “Everyone and exactly’s sort of pushing it, don’t you think?”

 Regulus huffs with laughter before he can choke it down. At the exact same time that just across from them, much to Regulus’ displeasure, James Potter lets out an entirely unattractive snort of laughter. 

 “Okay, until everyone on _average mostly_ knows what’s going on,” Lily Evans corrects, making several so-so hand motions and looking fairly amused herself. “That we can agree on, right?”

 “That seems reasonable,” Regulus agrees.

 “So you wouldn’t mind, Mister Black, if we took a moment to discuss a few things, would you?”

 Well, Regulus doesn’t particularly like the idea of leaving Light wizards to deliberate amongst themselves, but… he will admit that Lily Evans has always seemed like a sensible, open-minded witch. He has his doubts about James Potter, but the man did put himself up against the House of Black’s wrath for the sake of his friend, and though Regulus is loath to admit it, James Potter is a relatively intelligent and understanding wizard. A wizard who cannot seem to help looking at Harry with sympathy and curiosity, which his wife hides better but echoes clearly.

 They can all be civil, sensible individuals here until things are sorted and verified.

 “Not at all,” Regulus says diplomatically.

 He could certainly use the time to figure out what sort of mindset Harry’s in at the moment and push his saviour off a destructive track if necessary. At the very least, he and Harry can work out some sort of signal between them, like Regulus’ elbow in Harry’s gut means: _“Please shut up right now, you’ve deviated from your lines and you’re scaring the people we need to like us with your future talk and rather devastating emotional intensity.”_

 “Thank you,” Lily Evans says politely. “And by the way, I’m sorry about lying to you.”

 …What.

 “It’s just that this has been a very strange situation and it doesn’t hurt to be careful these days,” she continues, not looking sorry in the slightest. There is not even an ounce of regret in her green eyes, just… that awfully smug sort of gleam again. “You understand don’t you? It's alright, isn't it, since you're alright with him being involved? Thanks a bunch.”

 Beside her, James Potter looks vaguely apologetic and simultaneously smug. It appears as though he’s trying to hold in an innocent expression that he knows everyone will know is entirely false.

 “I beg your pardon,” Regulus says.

 Beside Regulus, Harry is presumably wide-eyed and gaping like the non-Black that he is, but then he stiffens and turns. Regulus, seeing the movement in the corner of his eye, sees Harry go rigid before his saviour wavers like his legs are about to go out. Then there’s the sharp intake of breath, like Harry has forgotten how that whole breathing matter works again.

 Then from behind them, a familiar voice says with cheerful bite, “Hello, _Reggie.”_

 Regulus forgets entirely about Lily Evans and James Potter. His feet turn of their own accord, it seems, and he finds himself looking into the face of his long lost brother.

 

~

 

Harry felt the prickle of a presence behind him, as his mother plainly and unapologetically and smilingly admitted to lying to the both of them. It was so blunt a statement that it jarred Harry out of staring helplessly at his parents, trying to see as much of them as he could all at once. Trying to figure out how to tell them everything without all the… horror.

 As soon as Lily starts speaking and Harry actually registers the words, he gets that familiar feeling of something almost like horror. It’s the lesser kind, the one that isn’t quite so terrible or deathly.

 No, it’s not the feeling that came with a monstrous snake misshapenly wearing an old woman’s skin and bones, or the feeling that came with an ethereal cat prowling among flowers and wedding guests. Not like conspiring voices creeping in the Astronomy Tower; not like skeletal masks drifting out of shadowy shelves to surround them; not like a lurching rat in an overgrown graveyard. Not the kind like the untimely loom of the full moon over a frozen tree; not like stone grating against stone as wide mouth opens for a rush of water and scales; not like thick purple cloth pulled away wrap by wrap to reveal an ill-fitting possession on the back of a puppet’s head.

 The feeling that Harry gets is like… like… it’s such a hard feeling to name. It’s such a hard feeling to find similarities for, because there are too few… or perhaps too many? This is the feeling for memories that Harry very carefully does not allow himself to remember, because whatever they are quietly lingers on even the sunniest of days if he leaves the space for them.

  It’s the feeling like… like… Professor McGonagall, listening but not listening, apologetic but sternly unyielding. Like Professor Lupin, Remus, friendly but distant, caring but absent, there but never there. Like Mrs. Figg down the street, kindly but dull. Like Mrs. Weasley even, protective but stifling, trying to shield him from things he has always and already seen and felt and fought.

 Like… like… Professor Dumbledore. Good, kind, wise. Grandfatherly. Rescuer, protector, the only man He ever feared. Mentor, friend, and _liar._

  _(“So Dumbledore’s… been having… me followed?”_

_“Of course he has! Did you expect him to let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent…”)_

 Harry turns, because of course someone was behind them – of course, of course, of course. Even if he couldn’t see it in the flicker of James Potter’s stare or the tilt of Lily Potter’s posture, he can feel it in the prickle of a presence running down the back of his neck. Of course the Potters didn’t come alone, of course not, because that would have been stupid. 

 He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see. He doesn’t know who he’s expecting.

 Harry turns and lays eyes on the man standing behind them. He’s young, just like Harry’s parents, between them in height and broader in shoulder, with long black hair and striking grey eyes. The sight of him inspires a bit of déjà vu, honestly, with Regulus standing right there; they’re obviously different people, but for a moment it feels as though Harry’s seeing two variations on the same individual.

  _Oh,_ he thinks then, relieved at having none of his horrors met, terrifying or quiet. _It’s just Sirius._

 After a couple calming heartbeats, Harry’s whole being stutters. He feels the breath leave his chest, the relief leave his spine, as he properly realizes, _Oh… oh… it’s Sirius._

 Sirius Black looks better than Harry has ever seen him. This is not the godfather that Harry knew for a scarce two years, but the handsome young man who grinned up from Harry’s collection of photographs – the best friend, the best man, lost to time and a terrible mistake. He’s here; he’s real. The nearly unrecognizable, devastatingly vibrant near-boy smiling for the camera has stepped off the page and into real life, and Harry needs a moment to reconcile this young man with Sirius Black.

 There are no lines on his face, no wrinkles, and there is nothing gaunt or ragged about him. He barely has a five o’clock shadow. A clearly stunningly handsome youth, instead of a tiredly once-handsome man wearing twelve years of hell. Sirius here looks healthy, well-fed, even slightly tanned. His clothes – brown slacks and thick brown leather jacket overtop what looks like a band shirt – are newish, along the lines of comfortably worn, and they _fit._ He looks like he’s only a few years out of Hogwarts, he’s never come close to Azkaban in his life and probably hasn’t ever considered the idea, and still thinks that he has a whole future ahead of him.

 Instead of traitors and prison and an untimely death over a stupid mistake.

 “Hello, _Reggie,”_ Sirius says, with a smirk, the edge of an edged grin, so familiar that Harry’s heart aches. Sirius’ eyes flicker over Harry, curious but dismissive in this moment as he focuses rather intensely on his younger brother, and that hurts too.

 Beside Harry, Regulus turns around immediately. The tension that only just dissipated returns in full force, making Regulus’ thinner shoulders and spine go stiff with surprise and, by the expressions that briefly flicker over his face, wariness and uncertainty. There aren’t expressions on Regulus’ face for more than a couple seconds, though, before he turns very, very cold.

 “Sirius.”

 “Don’t look so happy to see me.”

 There’s an edge of something in Sirius’ eyes here that Harry really doesn’t like. Something hard and cold and ruthless and… well… if Harry really had to say it… mean. There’s no lost love on Sirius’ face, or in his words, for his younger brother right now. Only barely hidden bitterness, almost a glower.

  _(“Because I hated the whole lot of them; my parents, with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal.”_ )

 And Harry is forced to wonder if this Sirius – young and free and not yet betrayed or bereft – actually won’t accept Regulus. He doesn’t know this Sirius, he realizes with a jolt of pain, just like he doesn’t know these Potters and they don’t know him.

 For all that Harry remembers a brief wistfulness, maybe some regret, as his godfather traced the family tapestry and recounted a sad summary of Regulus Black…

  _(“He was younger than me… and a much better son, as I was constantly reminded.”_

_“But he died.”_

_“Yeah. Stupid idiot… he joined the Death Eaters.”)_

 …that was a man who had lost nearly everything. A man who had had twelve years in the worst place in the world to think and reflect on things, _he_ might forgive his mysteriously deceased younger brother. Especially given his beliefs as to how Regulus had died.

  _(“Oh no. No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort’s orders, more likely, I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person. From what I found out **after he died** , he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out.”)_

 This… this could be a problem.

 “I’m sorry if I thought I could take Lily Evans at her word,” Regulus says icily, head tilting slightly as though he’s refraining from glaring behind him. “I thought eavesdropping was supposed to be for ‘creepy little snakes’, but hypocrisy always was one of _your_ specialties. How much did you hear?”

 Sirius eyes flicker over Harry again before he answers.

 Their gazes meet.

 “All of it.”

 _(The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.)_  

Harry tries to remember everything that’s been said, but he can’t quite focus. What has been said? What did he reveal? He’s screwed up and admitted his parentage, but did he say at any point that this man is his beloved godfather? Did he mention Azkaban? Or… or his death?

 This is unreal, just as unreal as Harry having Lily and James Potter alive behind him. His godfather is alive again, here in front him, solid and alive and with no idea of who Harry is. Harry thought that calming down and accepting his parents being here was hard, exhausting, but looking at Sirius and having Sirius look at him and _not know him_ is… is… it’s not worse, but it might be.

  _(It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall.)_

 He can’t focus on that, though. He can’t focus on any of this now, because if he does, he’ll break. He’s _over_ this; he broke over this already; he can’t break over this again now. He feels numb, sweaty, unbalanced, but he can’t break.

 Regulus shifts slightly, awkward and impatient.

 “Well?” he demands.

 “Well, what?”

 “Do you have an _opinion_ on any of this?”

  _(His body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward th-)_

 “Oh, you mean that worthless thing I should never share lest I embarrass the family again?”

 Regulus makes that strangled cat sound again, like he’s actually dying of pure frustration, and Harry’s horror-filled memories are momentarily brushed aside. This is somewhat like watching a horrible Quidditch accident in progress and it’s very distracting, so long as he doesn’t think too hard about or stare too much at Sirius.

 “Stop being difficult.”

 “Pardon _me,_ I was just attempting to clarify. I’m still reeling from that whole _never speak to me again_ thing. It’s confusing, Reggie; you’re really calling _me_ difficult?”

 “Yes! And _stop_ calling me that.”

 Harry, feeling out of his depth in an unfamiliar way, glances over his shoulder. Neither of the Potters have their wands trained on them or anything, despite Sirius’ being in mockingly plain view. Honestly, Lily Potter just looks fantastically unimpressed and James Potter looks tiredly embarrassed, and Harry can sympathize with both those things.

 “Why not? It’s cute. You didn’t mind at all before.”

 James meets Harry’s eyes in a commiserating stare and gives a sorry smile.

 “You didn’t say it like _that_ before!”

 Harry shrugs, because it’s not like his Black is behaving either.

 “And how am I saying it?” 

 Lily Potter clears her throat, loudly. Regulus and Sirius both go still at the sound, rather looking like they’ve just remember where they are and what’s happening.

 Regulus glances at Harry, looking vaguely anxious, and Harry raises his brows at him.

 “We were about to talk a few things over, but we can wait for you if you’re not finished,” Lily says, with devastatingly casual politeness. “Are you finished?”

 “Seems like a really meaningful and important conversation, though,” James says. “Philosophy for the ages. Would be a real shame to interrupt, especially since we’ve got absolutely nothing better to do but listen to our betters debate the great questions of our time.”

 “Oh, you’re absolutely right. Pardon me. I’ll just start taking notes, shall I?”

 Next to Harry, Regulus’ expression is blank, fully under control, but his cheeks are turning slightly pink. Meanwhile Sirius looks torn between a hangdog expression and annoyance.

 “Sirius, come on,” James says.

 Sirius seems to let out a silent sigh, before he steps forward to join Lily and James on the other side. Unlike James, he doesn’t bother to give them a wide and circular berth. He comes uncomfortably close – which is to say that he gives them plenty of space, but Harry feels himself stiffen with unspoken horrors and Regulus’ aura of tension thickens – and stops a few feet from his brother, no longer wearing any sort of humor.

 “You’re defecting from the Death Eaters,” Sirius says.

 “Yes,” Regulus answers stiffly.

 “And you’re trying to destroy Horcruxes.”

 “Yes.”

 “Which is how you met James and Lily’s son, here.”

 Regulus raises his chin and says, “Yes.”

 Sirius raises his brows in answer, suspicious and somewhat bemused. “You always were so damned gullible,” he says, ignoring the way Regulus straightens indignantly and James makes a disapproving sound. Sirius then looks directly at Harry and says, “Harry, is it?”

  _(“We’ll see each other again. You are… truly your father’s son, Harry…”)_

 “Yeah,” Harry says. “Hello.”

 Sirius smiles, slightly forced. “Well, I don’t know if I believe you yet, but… you look the part.”

  _(“I expect you’re tired of hearing this… but you look so like your father. Except your eyes.”)_

 “Like dad, with mum’s eyes,” Harry says hoarsely. “I know.”

 Sirius stares at him for several seconds – he doesn’t look any older than Fred and George; he’s younger than _Percy_ – then nods and looks again at his brother. “Honestly, Reggie, the messes that you get yourself into,” he says, snorting, before sauntering off over to the Potters, who look rather done with him… and maybe a little thoughtful. 

 Regulus makes another strangled noise, best summed up as ‘the only reason I haven’t punched you is we’re in a graveyard and it would be disrespectful’.

 Once Sirius joins the Potters, the three of them move off a ways to talk. Lily and James both give them friendly-ish smiles as they go, which Harry returns as best he can while feeling like his heart is going to either burst out of his chest or break. The last time he saw these three people in the same place was… well… never alive… but for a make-believe moment in the forest again…

 Harry turns away. He won’t think of that. He can’t.

 Regulus takes him gently by the arm and tugs him in the opposite direction of his young parents and godfather. Harry goes easily, glad for the respite from his horror-tinged memories and trying to navigate relationships that have largely been one-sided for him. Regulus will help him sort things out and Harry can reassure Regulus that Sirius is a decent person and good man, and maybe this won’t end in disaster because Harry can’t keep his mouth shut.

 They find a decent place, near several trees, almost across the graveyard from the Potters and Sirius next to the small church. Regulus releases Harry and looks like he dearly wants to start pacing, but refrains. Instead, Regulus raises his wand and ensures they won’t have eavesdroppers.

 After two whole minutes of spells, Regulus finishes and some of the tension finally leaves his shoulders as he lowers his wand. After several seconds, Regulus raises his non-wand to his face and rubs his fingers against his temple.

 “I don’t understand how Sirius got past my detection spells,” Regulus says finally.

 Harry shrugs. “Maybe he came after those?”

 “No, they would have caught that.”

 It takes Harry only a heartbeat to come up with a solution and ask: “Would your spells have caught someone in Animagus form?”

 Regulus goes still, then raises his wand hand and hides his face with a soft moan.

 “It’s alright,” Harry says, probably more amused than he ought to be. “You didn’t know.”

 “You didn’t _tell_ me.”

 Regulus raises his head and turns on Harry. “Look, Harry, I realize that this is impossibly difficult for you and I cannot possibly imagine what you’re going through at the moment,” he says, sounding barely restrained. “But I need you to _tell me things_ like that. I need you to tell me everything – everything that you can manage – or else this is _never going to work._ ”

 “Sorry,” Harry says, a miserable feeling stirring under the ache in his chest. “I know. I know that. It’s just… there’s so _much._ ”

 He understands, but, ugh, there’s an angry buzz in his stomach too. There’s so much that Regulus can’t know, that Harry can’t share, because they’re horrifying and awful and it’s pointless to spread the burden of a terrifying future, all the secrets and scandal, all the deathly shame and deadly sacrifices. And then, on top of that, there are some things that Regulus has _no right_ to know.

_(“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”_

_“The- the prophecy… the prediction… Trelawney…”)_

Harry is trying. He’s trying to survive, trying to live, trying to figure out what he can do, who he can save, what kind of place he can possibly have in this time and space. But as easy as it is to tell and trust a familiar stranger like Regulus, there are some things that can’t be spoken aloud. They aren’t Harry’s secrets to tell, or they are and he doesn’t want to tell, because they aren’t things that he will let live if he can help it. They aren’t things that he could even manage to _think_ about when he was alive back in his real life, even when deep down he had known them to be true.

  _(“I have- I have asked him-”_

_“You disgust me.”)_

 There are some things that must stay in the grave that Harry tried to take them and the Horcrux to. He survived, but he cannot bear to let them survive too. And if more survived that just himself and his secrets… if his sacrifice has been in vain… then he doesn’t know if he will be able to bear it. For his sake, if he is really to have a second chance at life, they must stay dead.

 “Harry,” Regulus says softly, solemnly, as though barely restraining himself. “I… I _needed_ to know this. I need you to concentrate and remember these things. I…” Regulus lets out a frustrated sigh and says roughly, “Harry… what if it had been _Pettigrew?_ ”

 Unbidden, the fingers of Harry’s non-wand hand fly to his throat at the reminder of the traitor. He swallows against the memory of a silver vice around his neck.

  _(“You’re going… to… kill me? After I saved… your life? You owe me, Wormtail!”)_

 Beyond informing others of the betrayal, beyond the thought that he might not have mercy if he were to meet Wormtail again, Harry had not been thinking of the man. He had been too distracted, trying to navigate too much already, to consider the presence of the rat.

 What if it had been Pettigrew?

 “Oh, Merlin,” Harry says, wavering slightly. “Oh, _fuck._ ”

 “Don’t be coarse,” Regulus snaps, before reigning himself in and sighing once more. “Oh, where do I have room to speak?” he mutters, his wand hand pressed against his forehead and the bridge of his nose. “I can’t account for Animagi. I can’t even hold my tongue at the sight of the very person I wanted to find.”

 “You have a better record for staying on track than I do,” Harry says.

 He cannot imagine doing this without Regulus anymore. Could he even speak without Regulus’ help? He couldn’t negotiate about seeing Dumbledore, probably, not without breaking. He couldn’t remember the very traitor he’d just spoken of and known that he should avoid.

 “That’s because you’re an emotional disaster, Harry,” Regulus answers, almost absentmindedly. “Rightfully, of course, given everything that’s apparently happened to you. I, on the other hand, should know better!” He looks absolutely disgusted with himself. “I shouldn’t let him make me so angry. I apologize for that; I should have better control over myself.”

 Harry is too busy being stuck on _Pettigrew_ to really listen to all that. What if he had been Pettigrew? The memories of that night, with the creaking tree and the looming moon, rush back immediately and Harry can almost see his chance at family disappearing into the night along with a worm-like tail.

 “I… Sometimes I just…” Regulus takes a deep breath, then sounds angrier. “Once he starts speaking, I can’t think of anything but hexing him. Do you know the feeling? I’d forgotten that. I should have remembered that he seems to _ask_ that he be cursed all the time. He doesn’t even need to do it verbally, even, his face says, ‘Hex me,’ all on its own.”

 Taking a deep breath, swallowing against silver hands and bad memories, Harry makes an effort to actually look at Regulus and listen. He might panic or break otherwise and… well… He needs to be here, in this moment, not lost in repressed nightmares.

 Besides, there’s something different about Regulus now. He’s… louder? More talkative? He seems brighter and quicker and… younger.

 “Are you… glad to see him again?” Harry says, because he’s not sure how to say, ‘ _You’re kind of ranting and I think you just dropped at least five years of maturity. I think I’ve heard my girlfriend say this entire speech word for word before; is this a sibling thing?’_

 Regulus pauses, then turns to look at Harry and says, “…Yes?”

 Harry blinks. “Was… was that a question?”

 “No, it’s just-” Regulus takes another deep breath, then another, before finally looking at Harry and saying very seriously, “Are you absolutely certain that… Sirius wants to know me again? Because, while that may have actually been the most successful conversation that we’ve had in five years or so, I’m afraid that I don’t have much faith in his- _our_ ability to ‘make up’, as you put it.”

 Harry is not really the best person to ask on the subject of siblings, or family in general, but he considers it nevertheless, because Regulus looks like he honestly expects an answer. So he thinks over the sharp edges in Sirius’ expression and words, then he thinks over his godfather in Grimmauld Place, his godfather and the screaming portrait, and his godfather’s wistful bitterness in front of his family tree. And then he thinks over the equally sharp edges in Regulus’ expression and…

 “I know that he’ll regret it if you don’t,” Harry says, making the statement as firm and inarguable as he can. “And I know that you’ll regret it if you don’t, so whether or not either of you want to, or whether or not it’s difficult, I think you’re both going to have to try.”

 Now it appears as though it’s Regulus turn to blink at him, faint surprise on his face.

 “What?” Harry says.

 “That was quite…” Regulus pauses, then appears to switch tracks, “well-put.”

 “As opposed to everything else I say?” Harry asks, amused with the reaction and unimpressed with his own performance so far. At Regulus’ blank expression, he adds, somewhere between good-humoured and slightly pissed off, “I know. I’m a ‘rightfully emotional disaster’.”

 Regulus clears his throat and looks away, cheeks slightly pinked. “My apologies. I didn’t mean that.”

  _Like hell, you didn’t,_ Harry doesn’t say, but like Regulus’ prodding, he lets it go. He is a bit of an emotional disaster, isn’t he? He messed up pretty much everything they’d planned to say and completely forgot to mention the possibility of Animagi listening in. As much as it stings to hear, he can’t deny that Regulus isn’t exactly wrong in that descriptor. At all, really.

 “It’s just,” Regulus begins, waving his wand-hand about without direction, “as much as one can hope to reunite with a sibling without issue, it has… rather immediately come to my attention that we actually have a great deal between us.”

 Harry looks at Regulus, really looks, and considers the thought that Regulus and Sirius at first appeared to be two variations on the same person. It’s not true, obviously, but… Regulus certainly looks much more… Slytherin, with his tied hair past his shoulders and his black robes. Neat and proper and thoroughly pureblooded, and completely different to his elder brother.

 Neatly cut wizarding newspaper articles against magazine pictures of motorcycles and models.

 “Our home life was rather competitive and… well… largely unpleasant, if we’re being honest, which Sirius will without doubt brutally be. There is a great deal that I never said to him, and a great deal that I… really should not have said to him. Too much, really, to take back, or to say now.”

  _(“I don’t think you’re a waste of space.”)_

 “And then there are our choices; I do not think Sirius will ever be able to truly forgive me for being a Death Eater,” Regulus says, staring off in the vague direction of his brother and the Potters. “As terrible a one as I might be. He… he isn’t particularly forgiving, you know. I have made some extraordinary mistakes – some annoyingly recently – that… Now that I have reunited with him, it is clear that… there will not be any going back, actually. To be realistic.”

  _(Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear._

_“I don’t know, he said.)_

 “Regulus,” Harry finds himself saying.

 The young man in question stops pacing and looks at him. And Harry finds himself struck, for a moment, at how alike he looks to Draco. He looks more like Sirius, of course, but the family resemblance is there. In his anxious speech, honestly, he even bears a vague resemblance to Tonks, which is strange no matter how one stops to consider it.

 “Are you nervous?” Harry asks.

 Regulus stares at him for a moment, before saying, “Pardon me?”

 “You sound-” Harry clears his throat. “You sound like you’re trying to talk yourself out of this?”

 Paused where he stands, Regulus seems to look inward for a moment.

 “Am I?”

 “Er… well, it sounds like it.”

 “I _am,_ ” Regulus realizes, sounding positively scandalized with himself. “I’m trying to talk myself out of this whole thing because of _Sirius._ ” No one has ever sounded so aghast, except perhaps the entirety of Privet Drive at the mere thought of anything abnormal. “His stupid face is making me irrational.”

 “Yes… that sounds, um- That does sound rather irrational, actually.”

 “ _Again._ ”

 Harry watches Regulus, entirely outraged, and feels a curious sort of settling in his chest. He is still not, by any means, fine. He is still not, in any real meaning of the word, alright. But the turmoil of anxiety and fear is settling into something manageable – perhaps paused for when he can get around to sorting through the mess of old betrayals, past nightmares, and new worries.

 There’s so much to worry about. There’s Dumbledore and Pettigrew and Horcruxes. There’s Voldemort and Death Eaters and a whole war just outside. There’s how he got here, whether his sacrifice worked, and what he left behind when he walked to die. There’s Lily and James Potter, people who Harry has never really known, and a young Sirius Black, someone who Harry has never really known either.

 But then again, there’s also Regulus Black doing an unintentionally perfect impression of Ginny that one time Ron used up the last of her shampoo last year.

 Something bubbles in Harry chest, warm and good and light, and then he laughs.

 Because it’s funny.

 Regulus looks at him like he’s turned into a canary, confused, and scowls like Hermione at her most academically righteous. “I _hardly_ see what’s so funny about this.”

 Which of course just makes Harry laugh harder.

 “Stop laughing. It’s rude.”

 “Sorry, sorry!”

 “No, you’re not,” Regulus says, eyes narrowed and arms crossed.

 Harry claps a hand over his mouth and manages to muffle the sound, trying desperately not to think of how very serious and offended Regulus sounds, else he’ll lose it again. It’s terribly difficult, but he manages. Terribly, terribly difficult.

 “Well, I hope you’re _happy_ now,” Regulus says snidely, “because they’re coming over towards us and we haven’t accomplished anything.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, then rubs his forehead like he wants to put his face in his hands again. “I can’t _think_ properly. This is all _his_ fault.”

 Harry would snort again, but he looks over and yep, his parents and Sirius are walking towards them. Lily Potter walking in the middle, rather short next to her husband and her husband’s best friend, her expression again looking very polite – which Harry is starting to become slightly wary of, honestly. James also looks like he’s trying to be non-threatening, in a sheepish sort of way, but Sirius…

 Well… Sirius is flat-out glaring at the person standing next to Harry.

 Harry looks beside him and yep, Regulus is glaring back.

 “Just try not to reveal anything important or horrible or traumatizing,” Regulus mutters quickly, “and let me do the talking and decision-making. And don’t panic or become nervous, for the love of Morgana, they’re just James Potter and Lily Evans.”

 But they’ve never been that to him. Never _just_  anything.

 “If you _are_ their son,” Regulus continues, quicker and lower, while Harry’s breath is caught in his chest and the trio approaches, “they’re hardly going to throw you out on your ear. Worry about Sirius hexing _me,_ actually.”

 Then even lower, “Or me him.”  

 And with that statement, Regulus raises his wand and dismisses the spells surrounding them. The magic dissipates into the cool afternoon air, as Harry’s parents and godfather stop less than a dozen feet away from them.

 “…So?” Regulus says.

 “We’ve decided that the likelihood of this being a very strange trap is low,” James Potter announces, with the beginnings of a smile around his lips and eyes. “This is all very confusing, mind you, but probably important to get to the bottom of… what with the… time travel and Horcruxes and whatnot.”

 “’Whatnot’,” Regulus repeats flatly.

 James nods grandly, while Lily makes what might be a sound of amusement.

 “So we’ve decided, if you don’t mind, to first -” James flicks up the pointer finger of his wand-hand, since the Invisibility Cloak is still hanging on his arm. “-make sure that there isn’t any horribly strict and nasty time magic hanging around this mess.” A second finger pops up. “And if there isn’t, to move on from there. With the important whatnot... and whatnot.”

 That sounds… perfectly alright to Harry, but Regulus is still tense, and now frowning.

 “And if there is ‘horribly strict and nasty time magic hanging around’?” Regulus demands stiffly.

 James pauses and looks at Sirius, who at the same time looked at him. They have a silent and unreadable exchange between them for a second, and then they both look down at Lily, who has a thoughtful hand on her chin. She looks up at her husband.

 “Try to prevent horrible Tempormantic catastrophe?” Lily suggests, shrugging.

 James brightens, then looks back at them. “Yeah, that,” he says.

 “Hm,” Regulus says, as though he would object if he reasonably could. “And how, exactly, do you intend to make sure of such a thing?”

 “By getting a Seer worth their salt to check,” Sirius answers.

 The phrase ‘I didn’t ask _you’_ is on the tip of Regulus’ tongue, Harry can see it. It’s as anxiety-inducing as it is kind of hilarious. But despite Regulus’ glare, he obviously swallows the phrase.

 Harry, meanwhile, is trying to think of a seer to do the job. Unfortunately, he only knows about three people who actually really bothered with Divination, and that’s only counting Firenze and centaurs probably aren’t an option. Parvati Patil apparently got pretty good by sixth year, but she hasn’t actually been born yet. Which, by and large, more or less, whether he likes it or not, just leaves…

 “It’s not Sybill Trelawney, is it?” Harry asks, feeling a little numb.

 Everyone looks at him.

 “Who?” James says curiously.

 “No,” Lily says, at the same time. “It’s not.”

 “Oh, good,” Harry says.

 “Any relation to Cassandra Trelawney?” James says.

 Everyone now looks at James.

 “Yeah,” Harry says, reluctantly. He heard mention of the 'legendary' Cassandra Trelawney a few times, and he’s fairly certain that the whole 'Inner Eye' business skipped the most recent generation.

 Honestly, someone with only two real prophecies to their name probably shouldn’t have been teaching, although maybe Harry’s biased because one of them actually ruined his life and killed his parents – also may have had a hand in screwing up Neville’s life too, actually – and the other just predicted more of his life being awful.

 “Any good?”

 Harry looks his father dead in the eye. “No,” he says, because whether or not Trelawney actually had any talent or skill, Harry’s not going near her.

 Merlin knows what horrible, life-destroying prophecy’ll leave her mouth now if he went to her for help.

 James raises his eyebrows. “Alright.”

 “It’s McKinnon, isn’t it?” Regulus says.

 Furrowing his brows, Harry tries to think of where he’s heard that name before.

 “Why would you think that?” Lily asks.

 He’s definitely heard that name before, but he just can’t place it.

 It’s now Regulus’ turn to raise his brows, as he says, “Because the McKinnons are well known for their Divination? Because everyone knows that Professor Palmsee is retiring and she wants one of the McKinnon sisters to replace her? Because she’s your _best friend_? Pick a reason.”

 For a few seconds, there’s stunned silence.

 “Merlin, you’re still an unbearable little creep,” Sirius says.

 Regulus looks surprised, then his eyes narrow.

 Harry has not been a Gryffindor, an honorary Weasley, and Ron Weasley's best friend for seven years – and then Ginny Weasley’s boyfriend for several months – without having learned to recognize when someone is about to get punched. (Or hexed, but a spell isn’t half so satisfying.) Harry and Ron were the only thing keeping each other from walloping Draco Malfoy in the face every other day for years, and they still occasionally failed.

 Their most notable failure is that time it took them until the end of _third year_ to realize that Hermione felt the urge too and _also_ had to be held back from delivering that mean right hook and other forms of terrifying wrath on complete gits.

 He may not know Regulus Black very well, and Regulus doesn’t exactly look like someone who actually knows how to or ever has thrown a punch in his entire life. But Harry’s got a sense for these things now, and he’d bet most of what little he has that Sirius Black is about to get a black eye from his little brother.

 James Potter reaches behind his wife and swats his best friend upside the head.

 “Stop it,” he says.

 Regulus looks too surprised to react anymore, which is a good thing because Harry is definitely way too surprised to react anymore. Especially because Lily Potter doesn’t look surprised at all; her lips are pursed like she can’t believe she puts up with anyone here.

 Sirius shoots James a scathing look. “Yes, _Mum,_ ” he says sarcastically.

 Lily Potter sighs. Loudly.

 “Look at that,” James says. “You’ve upset your father.”

 Harry has… Harry has sort of lost track of what’s happening. And by the rather incredulous, mildly horrified expression trying to force its way onto Regulus’ face, he’s not the only one.

 “Not to ruin the fun or anything, but Marlene is actually waiting on us,” Lily says. “So can we actually go or does Dad have to walk out for another woman?”

 “You’re leaving me?”

 “Yep,” Lily says, lips popping with the sound. “She’s sexier and a better cook.” Completely ignoring her husband’s mimed blow to the heart and Sirius’ snort, she focuses on Harry and Regulus. “Either of you have a problem with Side-Along?”

 “No,” Harry says.

 “...As long as it’s not _him,_ ” Regulus answers after a pause, glaring at Sirius, who glares back.

 “Excellent,” Lily says, then holds out a hand. “Wands, please.”

 “…I beg your pardon.”

 Lily fixes Regulus with that very polite look, which, yeah, Harry’s wary of that look now. “You don’t look like much of a threat, Mister Black, but I’m not about to take an armed Dark wizard into my best friend’s home. Wands, please.”

 Regulus doesn’t look especially cooperative.

 “ _Reggie,_ ” Sirius says warningly.

 “Don’t call me that,” Regulus snaps, before looking back to Lily. “Miss Evans, I mean no harm to your friend, but I’m not about to walk disarmed into a gaggle of Light wizards who might have serious grievances against me, my family, or some random Dark wizard off the street.”

 James gives Regulus a careful look and says, “No one’s going to hex you.”

 “I doubt that,” Regulus says, briefly glaring at his brother.

  Harry can feel the tension rising, and moves closer to Regulus, close enough that their arms are nearly pressed against one another again. He wants to tell Regulus that it’ll be alright, that he has nothing to fear, but… yeah, Harry probably wouldn’t go unarmed to meet with Albus Dumbledore now, if he was being forced to meet with the man.

 “Can he keep his if he sheathes it?” Harry asks. “I’ll give up mine.”

 To prove it, he turns the Elder Wand at his side so he’s holding it the wrong way around, then holds it out for someone to take.

 James looks down at Lily, who looks up at him. They exchange a look, then they both look at Sirius, who looks about as cooperative as Regulus. Sirius stares back at them, scowling, then his shoulders drop their tension.

 “You’re gonna have to put up with us not giving you an inch of space, Reggie,” Sirius says, as he moves forward to take Harry’s wand from his hand.

 There’s an odd pause as it leaves his hand, perhaps from the tight grip he’s kept on for most of the afternoon and his fingers aren’t used to being empty. There’s a wistful sough, a slight chill, a needling prickle, all in the palm of Harry’s sweaty hand as he drops his arm back to his side.

 Regulus glares back at his brother, sheathing his wand up his sleeve. “So long as it’s not _you,_ fine.”

 “ _Fine,_ ” Sirius says. “James?”

 “Yeah, yeah.”

 James Potter moves forward too, holding his arm out to Regulus, who does not immediately take it, because it’s obviously more important to glare at Sirius some more. Sirius glares back as he holds his arm out for Harry, who stares at it blankly for a couple seconds before he realizes that he’s meant to take it so Sirius can Side-Along him somewhere.

 Harry looks over to where Lily Potter is still standing, watching them carefully, lips pursed. The same unamused and suspicious expression when they first entered the graveyard. When she notices that Harry’s looking at her, her expression changes back into the polite one from before, this time with the tight sort of smile of an Aunt Petunia when Marge had been visiting too long.

 “See you on the other side, boys,” she says.

 And with a turn of the heel and a whirl of red braid, along with a loud _crack,_ Lily Potter vanishes into thin air. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, they were never immediately going to get on. And there's still secrets/grudges to fuck up what is going well. 
> 
> While you're waiting for this monstrosity to update, may I also recommend: 
> 
> [**You'll Go The Same Way**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7811107) (HP) - Time Travel, Complete. _Draco Malfoy isn't the average first choice for a hero sent back in time to save the world. Narcissa Malfoy, slightly surprised to see the grown man her eleven-year-old son could be, isn't the average first choice for his Horcrux-hunting partner either._
> 
> [**A Witch in the Family**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8054854) (HP) - Witch!Petunia AU, One-Shot (/WIP Series). _Petunia Evans learns important life lessons from the magical world that every proper witch ought to know._
> 
> [ **A Very Nice Thing To Say**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8167328/chapters/18714872) (HP) - COS AU, Fluff. _Harry and Ron miss the train to Hogwarts, but thank Merlin that these Lovegood people that Ron seems to know are here to help._


	14. The Marvelous Madam Marlene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In fact, Harry thinks for a moment that her eyes are missing pupils, before he blinks and figures it must have been a trick of the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I cared more, or perhaps if I cared less, this would be two chapters. Its sheer length makes it two, but it was written as one and I am in no mood to make anyone wait for the other half. I would apologize for the long wait, but honestly, I never expected this fic to be this thick or popular. (This started on a whim, why are you all here. I just wanted to write dumb traumatized wizard boys doing dumb stuff and being friends.) 
> 
> FDitH is draining and enjoyable to create in equal parts, the former likely nearly entirely from the sheer emotions involved and the wrestling and herding of my own too many plot threads. You would not believe the vastly different directions I have picked up and discarded with every single chapter. The original plot outline was very vague, but it was a very honest attempt at a plot outline and it has nevertheless become entirely obsolete, as has practically every piece of every plot outline that dared to follow. I do know what I'm doing, except I also very much don't. 
> 
> Anyway, if you're still here, I hope you continue to enjoy this fic. I do like writing it.
> 
> EDIT: I have to go out right now. I will answer comments later.

 With the disappearance of Lily Potter, the four young men are left uncomfortably alone. Harry is trying to look away from where she was but finds himself half-lost in the suspicion of her final look, fraught by the unexpected similarities between the Evans sisters. Sirius still has his arm out towards him, not even bothering to pretend that he wants to be here, and looks impatient. Regulus is still glaring suspiciously at James Potter’s offered arm, while James is looking as polite and mild-mannered as he can manage.

 “I won’t bite if you don’t,” James offers, finally breaking the silence.

 Harry, finally drawn once more out of his spiralling thoughts, thinks that Regulus rather looks like he now wants to bite James on sheer principle, but is graciously restraining himself. Regulus then swallows that expression and, with a face like he has swallowed something foul, takes James Potter’s arm and very reluctantly holds on without looking at the young man. Regulus raises his chin and stays stubbornly silent, briefly glancing towards Harry, then continues glaring coldly at Sirius.

 James doesn’t seem to take any sort of offense. Instead, he rolls his eyes and shoots an amusedly commiserating look towards Sirius, who is too busy sharing quietly loathsome glares with his brother. No offense is taken at this either and James accidentally catches Harry’s eye in place of his best friend’s.

 They both pause. Harry has no idea what to do and it doesn’t look like James knows either. But then, with only a beat of visible hesitance, James Potter winks in a mischievously conspiring manner.

 The wink hits Harry like a punch to the lungs – he can’t breathe; his heartbeat is thunder in his ears – but before he can figure out how to react to James Potter, the young man who could have been his father has firmly grasped Regulus’ reluctantly given arm and turned on his heel. James Potter and Regulus Black are whisked away into thin air, blurring and vanishing with a startling  _crack._

 Harry exhales, his heartbeat settling in his creaking chest. He is so painfully confused and thoroughly wrung through by this day, and it’s a frightening and exhilarating and exhausting thing to know that they’ve probably only halfway through it. It’s too much and not enough, and Harry exhales.

 Now it’s him and Sirius, alone in Godric’s Hollow’s graveyard. Two young men alone among the gravestones and neat grass and quietly rustling trees, on a cool and sunny November afternoon, apparently and miraculously alive against all things passed and yet to come. Harry is wearing too many years for his age and Sirius too few, compared to the godfather Harry knew. They’re complete strangers, Harry realizes yet again, to each other.

 He does not think he can stop realizing these things over and over again. These are not the sort of things, he thinks, that a person can be immediately over. His beloved parents do not know him and he knows _nothing_ of the lively, funny, suspicious young couple. He does not know this young man beside him, handsome and vibrant and cold, who does not know him, and Harry’s chest throbs with the still raw unfinished things that will _still_ never come to an end.

  _(He closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his hand three times.)_

 Beside him, Sirius Black is still staring at the place where his younger brother stood. His expression is unimpressed and impatient, torn and distinctly unhappy. His attention and investments, Harry can oh-so-clearly and oh-so-painfully see, are elsewhere – not with Harry, an unimportant stranger, of course not. This person could not possibly know of even half the turmoil and festering love in Harry’s heart, and even if he did, how much would he really care?

  _(They were neither ghost nor truly flesh, he could see that. They resembled most closely -)_

 Harry’s Sirius vanished into the Veil years ago.

  _(- memory made nearly solid. Less substantial than living bodies, but much more than ghosts. They moved towards him -)_

 And it is here that Harry realizes – perhaps again, or perhaps for the first time – that he won’t… he won’t ever have the chance to meet his parents and see his godfather again. Not _his_ ones. These ones are close, but they aren’t the ones he was looking for, the ones who never once failed to look at him with overwhelming love in their eyes.

  _(- and on each face, there was the same loving smile.)_

 Harry swallows against a throat that feels like it’s made of sandpaper, then clears his throat. His eyes are stinging with the beginning of tears, no matter how he tries to resist, and for a startlingly clear moment, he _hates_ this whole thing more than he has ever hated anything in his life. He can’t break; he won’t break; he… he… _didn’t ask for this._ He has to think of something else, _anything else,_ besides this unwanted, half-wrong chance at a different life.

 Sirius looks at him and Harry looks back. They stare at each other for a moment, Harry stifling the edges of tears and Sirius mistrusting, impatient, and perhaps a little alarmed.

 “Are we going or not?” Sirius asks finally, raising his arm.

 “…Yeah,” Harry says. His voice is a little hoarse and his eyes are still stinging, but he’s probably the most together he’s been for at least a week, so he reaches out and warily takes Sirius’ arm.

  _(Sirius must be just behind the curtain, he, Harry, would pull him back out again…)_

 Harry isn’t given any warning before Sirius turns, he reflexively redoubles his grip, and they _twist._ Harry has only time to give a searing gasp before everything goes black and he is being pressed very hard from all directions, his chest and lungs and eyes and eardrums squeezing and seizing with the familiar between spaces second of Side-Along Apparation.

 Once they have reached the other side, Harry takes in another searing gasp and is glad that, at the least, he can blame the sting of tears on an uncomfortable Apparation. He and Sirius have rejoined the other three in a place that Harry has never seen before.

 They are standing on a paved country road, surrounded by long rows of comfortable, sprawling houses, all with small parks’ worth of plot, filled with green lawns and large gardens and autumn-coloured trees. All steady and solid and comfortable-looking. Beyond the houses and gardens seem to be proper fields and farmland, with what look to be barns and livestock, and beyond that seems to be a large forest. The peaceful yet well-lived-in road reminds Harry of the Burrow, of Ottery St. Catchpole, if the Weasleys had next-door neighbours.

 Lily and James are standing side-by-side next to a bright red mailbox, upon which somebody has lovingly painted _The Meadowes_ in curling white. Regulus is standing a little off to the side, torn between frowning at the mailbox and warily watching the couple that is very casually watching him in return.

 He looks subtly yet visibly relieved when he lays eyes on Harry and Sirius, immediately detaching himself completely from the Potters. Sirius drops Harry’s arm and does the opposite: detaching himself from Harry to rejoin the Potters. The tension as the brothers pass each other is uncomfortable but thankfully brief, as Regulus shoots his elder brother a tight scowl and Sirius flounces pointedly uncaringly past his younger brother, and then they’re standing in their little groups again.

 James and Lily look tiredly unimpressed, but Harry is rather glad to have Regulus’ presence at his side again. There are some things, after all, that two people can’t go through together without having some amount of trust and companionship between them; the unnatural and unlikely avoidance of death, Harry thinks, is one of them. At least he mostly knows where he stands with Regulus.

 He regrets giving up his wand now, just a little bit, as eager as he was to give it up (and be rid of it) moments ago. It’s not as though Harry thinks that these people will be some sort of threat to him, but after a year of constant danger and several more years of sporadic danger, Harry dislikes being without a wand and the sharp feeling of vulnerability. He’s not much of a wizard without a wand. Oh, how he fiercely misses his holly wand at this reminder – _so much_ – like a missing limb.

 Regulus still has his wand, of course, but some small part of Harry is… worried about keeping his word and returning favours without a wand of his own. He can’t rely on Regulus for everything.

 “Shall we?” James Potter asks of Lily.

 “Mmm, might as well,” Lily says.

 Lily Potter turns towards the property nearest to them, belonging to the bright red mailbox, and leads the way to the latched iron gate in the tallish hedge bordering most of the plot. She goes through first, followed by James, and Harry and Regulus go next so that Sirius can bring up the rear and close the gate behind them with a rusty groan and _snap._

 Regulus seems to be on edge, every sound and step putting him further on that stiff edge. He moves closer to Harry, then leans in slightly and whispers very quietly, “Are you alright?”

 “Fine,” Harry says under his breath, having been trying to ignore the lingering wetness around his eyes. He focuses instead on the brush of Regulus’ arm against his again, of the dirt and gravel path beneath his feet, and this new place surrounding him.

 There isn’t much lawn left on the property, unlike all the others surrounding it, and what there is untended and being used to hold a large leaf pile. Along the gravel path are rows and rows of carefully tended garden, vibrant and plump, like a smaller version of the Hogwarts’ gardens just before harvest. Harry can recognize many a large and well-cared-for plant from either Herbology or Potions; they seem to be mostly magical, actually, especially by how the plants squirm and shiver and appear to roll over in sleep as they pass. There even looks to be a greenhouse attached to the solid two-story house.

 Lily is the one who steps up to the bright red door and rings the doorbell. They all wait in painful, forcefully patient silence for the door to be answered. And it’s only just when it really does seem like no one is home that there’s the click of a lock, the clunk of a stubborn doorknob, and the sturdy door finally opens.

 The young woman standing in the doorway is… unlike whoever Harry was expecting. He doesn’t know her, not at all – long and limp brown hair, a lot of freckles, a common yet unfamiliar tan face – and probably would have identified her as a potential Hogwarts student who stayed behind to fight if pressed. She’s very short and very young – _she’s a girl,_ Harry thinks before remembering that he’s seventeen and no one of their group is older than twenty at most.

 The young woman is also surprisingly… normal-looking. She’s wearing heavy boots, dirty overalls, a thick turtleneck, and a wide-brimmed hat, like she was just back in from tending to the garden outside.

 She also looks inexplicably and outrageously angry. She’s scowling.

 “The radishes aren’t ready yet,” she says to Lily.

 “I know. We’re not here for the radishes,” Lily says, without missing a beat.

 This is when the young woman visibly notices that Lily isn’t alone, widening eyes first flickering to James, then Harry, Regulus, and Sirius lingering behind the couple. Her mouth opens a little, looking back and forth between the people on her doorstep, either in surprise or in a failing attempt to form words. After a few seconds of staring, her brow furrows back into a scowl and she leans forward to hiss into Lily’s ear, unfortunately not quietly enough not to be overheard.

 “Why are there _two of them?_ ”

 Whatever Lily whispers back is much quieter and despite how Harry strains, he doesn’t manage to catch it. Whatever she said, either it wasn’t very complimentary or this young woman is disinclined towards different expressions, because she looks them all over again with the same deep frown.

 “We’re here to see Marl,” Lily says. “She should be expecting us.”

 “She didn’t tell me anything.”

 “It’s very last minute. Can we come in?”

 The young woman stares at Lily for a few seconds, then over the four young men behind Lily, obviously thinking this request over very seriously and unhappily. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I’ll put the kettle on. Come on in.”

 Without another word, the young woman actually stomps back into the house and Lily follows as though this is perfectly normal. James turns around long enough to give Harry and Regulus a reassuring smile that only looked a little strained before turning around to follow his wife. Regulus immediately follows, which of course urges Harry to do the same, and they step through the door into the strange young woman’s house.

 The inside of the house is as steady as the outside, warm-toned and homey, clearly magical and well lived-in, again much like the Burrow. The truly stunning thing, however, is that the house is somehow even more cluttered and disorganized than the Burrow was at its worst. The complete opposite of the neatly tended garden outside. Just the front hallway is a small disaster of strewn shoes and boots, bicycles and broomsticks, purses and bags, and a front table holding the keys and coats that won’t fit on the wall hooks or in the closet with the straining door.

 Lily and the strange young woman are the only ones to navigate the house wholly unscathed, leaving the rest of them to fend for themselves on the way to the kitchen, stumbling through shoes and wayward rakes and cricket bats. James and Harry fare alright; James cleverly keeps a hand on the wall and Harry’s quick reflexes manage to keep Regulus, who fares less well, from falling into a small pile of half-unpacked boxes and gardening buckets when his robes snag on a watering can that Harry could swear had reached out and grabbed for him.

 He doesn’t know how Sirius does, but there’s a small crash and a muffled sound of frustration behind them. Harry doesn’t look back.

 “You really need to do something about that hallway,” Lily says, as Harry and Regulus stumble through the door of the kitchen. She’s leaning against a counter that probably has a surface under all those dishes and cereal boxes and pots, lips pursed in mild disgust and disapproval, her wand twitching slightly in her hands like she’s trying not to do something about the mess. 

 The young woman just snorts from where she’s manually putting on a kettle. “You should see what it does to people we really don’t like,” she says with a dark sort of humour. Then she explains more seriously, “It’s not usually this bad. Marlene’s been running residual enchantments and impressions tests on everything these past few days.”

 Lily looks over the food-crusted pots and pans stacked in the sink. “Right,” she says flatly, before furrowing her brow and flicking her wand at the six-seated dining table in the middle of what would otherwise be a lovely kitchen. With intense focus, the many bowls and books covering the table leap off it and find somewhere else to sit, either in piles near the sink or on the edge of a side table.

 Once the table has been cleared, Lily turns to look at Harry and Regulus, who take the hint and take seats on one side of the table. They’re the only ones who sit. Lily stays where she is, hips resting against the counter, and the young woman does the same after the kettle is on. James, meanwhile stands freely close to Lily, more or less in the middle of available standing space, and Sirius leans heavily against the frame of the kitchen’s doorway and stays there.

 After an awkward eternity of about half a minute, where there is no sound save the quiet tick of a wall clock, the scowling young woman finally says, “So, are we waiting for Marlene, then?”

 “Yes,” Lily answers.

 And that’s that. Silence falls in the kitchen again and Harry is left to awkwardly wonder who this person is, where he’s heard the name Marlene McKinnon before if he ever has, and how bad of a decision this might turn out to be. It’s got a bit of a feeling like visiting Aunt Petunia had this morning, only less knowingly painful and more painfully unknown.

 Why are they here again? Something about making sure that there wasn’t any “horribly strict and nasty time magic hanging around this mess”? Harry still isn’t sure how they’re going to do that, nor is he sure how he wants this to turn out, because there’s an absolutely tiny, faithful, and stubborn part of him hoping that this will give him all of the answers to the impossible questions surrounding him. But at the same time, he has so many secrets to keep, and _what if there is strict magic_? What then? He’s meddled badly with time. What terrible things are due as consequences for his actions?

 Harry’s trying not to think about it – he’s trying very, very hard, honestly, to skew his thoughts in any other direction – but it’s difficult and the terrible thoughts linger, unthought but very present, in the back of his head nevertheless. He wishes someone would say something to distract him, but everyone else appears to be waiting for anyone else to say something. Regulus is sitting very stiffly beside him, pointedly not looking at Sirius, who is pointedly staring at the both of them but particularly his younger brother. Lily is looking over the room’s mess, unimpressed, while James is eyeing it all with wariness and the young woman, the clutter’s owner, is ignoring just about everything and everyone in favour of frowning off into the distance.

 There is a very real feeling of relief, all around, when the awkward quiet is broken by the heavy thumps of someone suddenly moving about upstairs. Quickly and loudly, too; the movements going back and forth like the stranger upstairs is wearing thick boots and has just remembered they need to pack for a train leaving in an hour. They only do this for less than a minute, though, before they’re hurrying down the stairs in a chorus of quick stomps, answering creaks of stair, and a few heavy thumps that telegraph their position in the house to anyone within the house-wide range of their noise.

 “That’d be her,” the young woman says disinterestedly.

 A new woman appears in the doorway behind Sirius, who moves to let her and her arms full of dishes and house décor through immediately – no, wait, that’s Divination equipment, a _lot_ of it – and stomps her way over to the cluttered sink. Without further ado, the new woman dumps the mess in her arms on top of the rest of the dishes over the sink and counter, caring only to put several large silver candlesticks to the side and carefully place a crystal ball in an unwashed strainer, leaving all but a pink hand towel to clink and clack precariously in her sink. Then she turns on Lily.

 “So I don’t know what the hell you were trying without me, but as far as I can tell, time is fine,” she says, looking slyly sideways, using the towel to carelessly clean the chalk dust absolutely covering her hands and forearms. She’s doing a terrible job of it; there’s already dust all over her jeans. “So… whatcha do, Lils?”

 Marlene McKinnon is tall and fair and gangly, no older than anyone else in the room, with a chin-length mass of very frizzy blonde ringlets and a sharp, long face that lends itself very well to the sly look she’s turning on Lily Potter. Her posture is relaxed, her expression largely bemused, and she has eyes for no one else in the room, like she hasn’t even realized they’re here.

 Lily raises her eyebrows, lips twitching. “What makes you think I did something?”

 “Between my sixth and eighth senses, I have a seventh purely for Evanses’ antics, of course,” Marlene says mildly. “But seriously, what’s going on and who have you brought into my house with no warning? No, wait, let me try and guess first.”

 Lily’s lips twitch again. “Be my guest.”

 Smiling back, Marlene then rounds on Harry and Regulus at the dining table, her expression suddenly solemn, her brown gaze strikingly deep as she searches over them. In fact, Harry thinks for a moment that her eyes are missing pupils, before he blinks and figures it must have been a trick of the light.

 Marlene focuses first and briefly on Regulus, who looks very unhappy about this sudden guessing game and being stared at, then glances at Sirius and asks, “The brother you don’t talk about?”

 “Yup,” Sirius says flatly.

 Marlene nods in satisfaction, then looked between Harry and James… several times.

 “The brother that _no one_ has talked about?” she says, her tone joking and hopeful. That and the look on her face suggest she knows she’s guessing wrong, as she raises her eyebrows at James.

 “No,” James says.

 “Hmm… Well then…” Marlene turns her eyes back to Harry to study him properly, and Harry suddenly understands why Regulus didn’t like having that stare turned on him. It’s very intense and uncomfortable, unyielding and invasive, made all the worse than it encourages everyone else in the room to follow suit and stare at him too.

 He may be used to it – being stared at, being judged, having strangers form thoughts on him without his permission – but he has never liked it. He has never liked being the Boy-Who-Lived, being that strange, impossible, celebrity child, under the constant scrutiny of a hungry and fickle crowd. And there are enough people in this room that it is beginning to feel a bit like a crowd. He especially hasn’t had a good experience with crowds recently.

  _(The illusion was gone as soon as it had come. The giants roared as the Death Eaters rose together, and there were many cries… gasps… even laughter.)_

 Marlene McKinnon has a stare that will pick him apart, to pieces, and leave nothing but bones.

 Finally… _finally…_ the intense stare lightens, slipping casually off and away from him as though it had never been there, and Marlene turns a tight attempt at a sly expression on Lily and James Potter.

 “Well, don’t you two make pretty babies,” Marlene says. 

 Lily and James just sort of stare back at her, leaving a very awkward and slightly disbelieving silence to hang around the room, before James returns with an equally tense sort of smile, “Thank you.”

 Behind Marlene, the first young woman is staring at Harry with a nearly hilarious look of surprise and outrage. It’s sort of distracting, along with the kettle softly screaming behind her. Harry wishes he knew her name.

 “Now it’s time for that ultimate question: who’ve you brought into my house and what’s going on?” Marlene says, smiling, very calmly. “Introductions, please. Then someone explain to me why I have a time-travelling baby Potter and the Death Eater baby Black in my house. I’m all divined out at the moment.”

 Regulus makes a muffled version of his strangled cat sound again, at that title, but neither Marlene nor the Potters pay him any mind. Sirius might, but he’s sort of been constantly glaring at Regulus, and Harry’s paying more attention to the flicker on the face of the young woman behind Marlene. Her look of surprised outrage turned on Regulus, for a second, and it was nothing less than pure, unadulterated hatred before she stuffed the emotion back under her perpetual, disinterested frown.

 “This is Harry,” James says, still wearing that tense sort of smile that’s nothing, _nothing,_ like the innate adoration of the young man in mirrors. He’s nineteen and he looks towards Harry with painful, awkward politeness. “Harry, do you know…?”

 Harry tries to swallow the rawness in his throat; it doesn’t entirely work. “Ah… no.”

 There’s sharp surprise all around the room at this, from muted surprised to plain shock, that Harry doesn’t know these young women. Lily, James, and Sirius are all visibly taken aback. Regulus is staring at him with faint disbelief, like Harry has just said something very, _very_ wrong. Marlene is the only one who doesn’t look surprised, she’s still smiling – calmly, tightly, wrongly.

 “Marlene McKinnon,” she says, tone at odds in its warmth and friendliness, introducing herself when it seems like no one else is going to do it. She nods back to the short young woman behind her. “This is Dorcas Meadowes.”

 “Hello,” Harry says awkwardly, to them both.

 Dorcas nods in greeting, frowning, before turning to finally do something about the kettle.

 “So, Harry,” Marlene says, casually shoving the conversation along. “I’ve never met a time-traveller before, much less one who’s managed not to twist time as he does it. How’d that happen?”

 “I’m… not sure,” Harry says slowly. “It was an accident. I don’t know how it happened, or how to undo it.” Then, after that painful confession, he repeats inquiringly, “Twist time?”

 Marlene stares at him for a moment, consideringly. “You know time-turners?”

 “Yes.”

 She tilts her head and asks, “Used one before?”

 “Once,” Harry admits.

 Beside him, Regulus stiffens faintly. He can’t see Sirius, but James and Lily look surprised. Dorcas is busy looking for and failing to find clean cups. Marlene looks a little bemused.

 “That’s interesting,” she says. “Well, if you wanted an expert in Tempormancy, you really should have gone to a Palmsee or the like, but since this is obviously personal, I’ll do my best. If you’ve used a time-turner, I’m sure you heard a spiel about the dangers of meddling with the past.”

 Harry remembers hearing something, but he’s sure he forgot it among everything that happened that night. It’s been years. He remembers Hermione saying something, but he doesn’t at all remember what. Not even an inkling, honestly.

 “Yeah,” he says, rather than admit that.

 “Well, that’s because time-turners _bend_ time,” Marlene says, raising a hand and turning her wrist until it can’t turn further without breaking. “They twist it. They’re very… local… devices. Limited. When their influence runs out, time…” Her hand and wrist turn back, very quickly. “…snaps back. If things don’t more or less line up, you get paradox problems. If there’s a way to permanently change the past without consequences, it hasn’t been invented yet.

 “So, even if you ended up here accidentally, it’s more than a little curious and, as far as the magical community knows, impossible for you to be sitting there without more than a few twisted and tangled forces around you. …How long have you been here?”

 “Four days or so.”

 Marlene squints at him. “Yeah,” she says. “You should _definitely_ be a walking twist waiting to lash out at any moment. Besides walking up to your own parents before you’ve even been born, would you say you’ve changed anything significant?”

 Harry doesn’t look at the eighteen-year-old should-be-dead bloke beside him.

 “Yeah,” he says.

 “How significant? Like, ‘can be reasonably and quietly corrected’ significant? Or ‘everything is completely changed and nothing will be the same’ significant? Take a moment to think about it.”

 Harry does take a moment to think about it. Saving Regulus Black is… pretty damn significant, he’d say. Maybe that could’ve been quietly “fixed” – a thought that makes him flinch a little – but Harry’s probably done a lot of damage in terms of useful information. And even if the paradoxical problem of Regulus Black needed to be and was “fixed” now – that’s _such_ a horrible term, it _hurts_ to think – Harry meeting Lily and James Potter is probably equally if not more influentially significant.

 “Yeah,” he says again, hoarsely. “The last one, definitely.”

 Marlene is still smiling tightly and doesn’t look very convinced. “You’re sure about that?” she says, friendly but sceptical. “Personal significant isn’t the same as ‘important’ significant, you know. When I say ‘everything is completely changed and nothing will be the same’, now, I mean-”

  _(Now he saw that his life span had always been determined by how long it took to eliminate all the Horcruxes.)_

 “He knows how to kill the Dark Lord,” Regulus snaps. “Which would not be otherwise even remotely acted on until nearly twenty years from now. Believe me, the definition of ‘significant’ here is well understood.”

 Marlene’s calm stare moves to Regulus, beside Harry, sitting tall and proud. She doesn’t look at all unimpressed, under her perpetual, faintly unnerving smile.

 “Believe me, baby Black, when you know as much Divination as I do, you learn that the definition of ‘significant’ is very rarely understood,” she says. “The world is very big; people are very selfish; and besides, I tend not to take the word of your sort. Try not to tempt me into a fight here with that tone, I actually have something to stand on.”

 Regulus maintains his proud pose, frowning angrily at her, but the stiff and threatened edge he’s been wearing today shows through again. He doesn’t have an answer to that, Harry sees. No easy quip. No rejoinder. Or maybe he does have one and, eyes flickering around the room, has swallowed it down in the face of their company. From the doorway, Sirius gives a low whistle, and Regulus twitches.

 Marlene’s stare moves dismissively off Regulus, back to Harry.

 “No offense meant, Harry,” she says. “It’s not that I doubt you – though I don’t know you – it’s more that it sounds very much that you’re a walking twist. A large one, if you’ve got information as significant as that, or at least a smaller, more familiar one given you’ve made contact with Lils and Jim, here. That you’re sitting there, fine and unobtrusive as if you belong here, goes against all the laws I know surrounding time. It’s just very… impossible.”

 “I’ve… always been good at impossible,” Harry says, for lack of anything else to say.

 Marlene laughs, a little strained. “Well, considering your parentage, I’m not all that surprised at _that,_ ” she says, tilting her head with curiosity as she regards him. “Honestly, what sort of ‘accident’ sends you nearly twenty years back in time and lets you change things without so much as a ripple, much less Tempormantic catastrophe?”

  _(Voldemort’s head was tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded.)_

 “I don’t know,” Harry says again, tongue feeling heavy, fingers feeling numb. “I’d… it shouldn’t have happened. I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright.”

 “I’d rather you did,” Marlene says – unapologetic, intense. “A potential problem with time isn’t something to leave just because it doesn’t seem like a threat to anyone now.”

 Harry looked around the room.

  _(Harry looked back into the red eyes-)_

 Lily and James Potter are both staring at him, watching him with the same sort of intense and immoveable curiosity that Marlene McKinnon is wearing. Sirius, too, is looking at him expectantly, from his place in the doorway. None of them look intimidating or threatening, just… expectant.

  _(-and wanted it to happen now, quickly-)_

 Regulus is the only one who doesn’t look at him like that. His muted expression is concerned, apologetic, panicked. Maybe a little angry, but not at Harry. He looks like he wants to say something, like he’s on the edge of saying something, but doesn’t quite know how.

  _(-while he could still stand-)_

 Is it so bad if he says it? He already said it before, to Regulus, and it didn’t matter then, one dead man to another. Is it so bad if he says it now? This is apparently important.

  _(-before he lost control-)_

 There’s no need for Regulus to look like that. It’s not… such a big deal to tell them. 

  _(-before he betrayed fear-)_

 Except how it is, actually, a big deal. _So_ much.

  _(He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light-)_

 “I died,” Harry says, staring at the dining table’s surface, because he can’t… he can’t quite meet anyone’s eyes at the moment. “It was the Killing Curse. I shouldn’t be…” _Here,_ he should say, but it’s beyond places, really, he just _shouldn’t be, anymore._ “I don’t know how this… happened.”

  _(-and everything was gone.)_

 He looks up at Regulus first, beside him, whose expression is unsurprised and grim. Admitting that he died is more or less one of the first things Harry said to Regulus – it was kind of a bonding moment, actually, sitting in that cave with the knowledge that they were both supposed to be dead.

 Did he tell Regulus it was the Killing Curse? He can’t remember.

 Regulus’ accepting expression gives Harry the strength to look around the room again, but he quickly finds that Regulus’ solemn knowingness is not shared at all, much less the average expression. Marlene McKinnon is finally no longer smiling, with the fingers of one hand pressing against her lips and lower face like she can force the question back down if she presses hard enough.

 Behind her, Dorcas Meadowes, though her back is turned, has frozen in the middle of trying to wash dishes. Unmoving in the middle of scrubbing a mug.

 But it’s James and Lily’s expressions that really take Harry aback. James Potter looks stunned beyond words, his tense sort of smile given way to a plain and genuine horror, nearly gaping disbelievingly at Harry. And beside him, Lily Potter is wide-eyed and solemn, a supporting hand now pressed hard against the counter behind her.

 They looked absolutely nothing like the shades that had come to fetch him in the forest, Harry finds himself thinking distantly. Nothing at all.

 He looks over at Sirius, pushed by a morbid sort of curiosity, and finds that yes, Sirius too looks rather stunned. Like he expected any other answer than that. Was it really so surprising? Regulus was supposed to die too… although, Harry remembered, Sirius didn’t know that yet either. Regulus had made a sincere effort not to imply that either of them should be dead; maybe he’d been right to try and keep things that way, if these expressions of horror and pity were what they’d get.

 He looks at his would-be parents again, who are still staring at him.

 “It didn’t hurt,” Harry says, before he can think about it. His godfather’s shade’s words come to him, unbidden, too true and fitting not to fall off his tongue. “Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

 The walk towards death had been infinitely worse than dying, honestly.

  _(A swarm dementors was gliding amongst the trees; he could feel their chill, and he was not sure he would be able to pass safely through it. He had no strength left for a Patronus. He could no longer control his own trembling. It was not, after all, so easy to die.)_

 Yeah, it was the walk that killed him.

 If anything, however, this poor man’s attempt at reassurance just makes them look even more horrified. Lily’s knuckles are white where they’re gripping the counter behind her. James wavers a little where he stands.

 Even Regulus, beside him, makes a muted, strangled sort of sound. Harry looks at the younger Black brother and finds that his companion is now glaring at Marlene McKinnon, like Harry’s inevitable and necessary death is somehow her fault.

 “Unless you’d like Harry to relive every detail of his death for you, could we perhaps _move on_ to more important matters?” Regulus says sharply. “Since I’m the _sort_ that I am and have actually bothered to speak with Harry about _significant_ things, I think I have plenty to stand on when I say that things have very significantly been changed already. Unless you can actually find a ‘twist’ in time, I suggest that we act as though the world intends to continue as it is now and _do_ something to prevent future deaths from happening.”

 Regulus and Marlene stare at each other for a long moment. So long and so intensely, in fact, that Harry can’t help but wonder about the conversation apparently silently going on between them. The silence goes on beyond awkward, long and deep enough to firmly reach the status of _painful._

 “Excuse _me_ for giving a damn about the consequences of my actions,” Marlene says finally, not even a trace of a smile. Her expression is hard, her eyes slightly watery, and she seems torn between staring pityingly at Harry and glaring at his companion.

 “I’m sure, McKinnon, the fact that Lily Evans’ son _didn’t know your name or your face_ isn’t lost on you,” Regulus says coldly. The he sneers, “Are you really so eager to roll over and die?”

  _Oh,_ Harry thinks.

 Dorcas Meadowes turns at this, tap turned off, staring incredulously and angrily at Regulus. And looking at her and Marlene McKinnon, side by side, Harry has some memory of an old photograph in Alastor Moody’s gnarled hand. Two strange women he did not know, blurred and smiling, unimportant among so many others who did not survive. 

 A memory drifts up, now that he’s placed them, of the McKinnons being used time and time again as an example of casualty in the first war. A whole family, among many others, that Voldemort wiped out entirely. Harry did not know how many McKinnons this was, but it was sobering no matter the number. He’d forgotten about them in the face of all the new families dying the second time around.

  _Oh, that was mean, though._

 “Reggie, for the love of magic, shut _up_ ,” Sirius says flatly.

 “Oh, like _you_ didn’t notice the strangeness there, either,” Regulus snaps, whirling on his brother in the doorway. “All I want to know is if we’re going to focus on nonsense or actually get something accomplished. We’re established there isn’t any ‘horribly strict and nasty time magic or _whatnot_ hanging around’, now let’s _move on_ to things that matter. _Horcruxes_ , perhaps?”

 “Horcruxes?” Marlene repeats, wide-eyed again. “Who’s been stupid enough to make a Horcrux?”

 “Volde- Tom. You-Know-Who,” Harry answers, barely catching himself on the name. He understands a lot better, now, why people didn’t like the say the name. The name of Voldemort’s “filthy Muggle father” was hardly widespread and the Taboo had been terrifying in practice.

 “Horcrux _es,_ ” Regulus corrects unhappily. “He made more than one.”

 Marlene stares at the both of them, disbelieving. “But that’s _stupid,_ ” she says.

 “Well… yeah,” Harry says. Then he realizes, “Hang on. How do you know what a Horcrux is?”

 Harry hadn’t found out what a Horcrux was until nearly four years after he’d already destroyed one on accident. They weren’t exactly common knowledge. Of all the people to recognize the Dark magic immediately by name, a young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty wasn’t one of them.

 “My family specializes in the enchantment of objects and soul-based magic, among other things” Marlene says, still looking stunned.

  _Oh,_ Harry doesn’t say, _that’s probably why you were all killed then._

 A long moment of silence falls on the kitchen again, as no one appears to know what to say next. Marlene and Harry stare at each other for this long moment, each occasionally glancing away to look at everyone else in the room, but ultimately coming back to each other.

 “I’m sorry,” Marlene says finally.

 Harry blinks at her, uncertain about where that came from. “For what?”

 “Pushing you to talk about… something you didn’t want to.”

  _Dying,_ she doesn’t say.

 “Oh,” Harry says. “It’s fine.”

 It’s not, really.

 But it is, really, it has to be, and he has far, _far_ worse secrets that he doesn’t want to come back to life. One of which is stirring in the back of his head, bubbling up for his consideration in the face of this new information about the McKinnons, laying in to eavesdrop for answers to one of the problems he’s been ignoring ever since he woke up. Harry ignores it, still, but… doesn’t stifle it.

 “May we move on now to the ‘important whatnot’?” Regulus says. “The Dark Lord has five Horcruxes that aren’t going to destroy themselves.”

 Marlene turns her stare on Regulus again and her tight smile finally reappears. “And you’re going to do the job?” she says. “That’s a bit surprising… considering…”

 “Well, it’s not like you were getting the job done,” Regulus says, expression wintry.

 Harry looks at Regulus, then to Sirius who looks ready to snarl back at his brother’s bite, and then back to Regulus with the feeling that they’ve done this before. They’ve definitely done this before. And it wasn’t constructive then, either. Harry nudges Regulus’ knee, immediately drawing his companion’s searching attention. Harry meets that sharp concern with the tired expression that he hopes points out Regulus is shedding years of maturity again.

 “So, just to be clear, we’re _certain_ that there aren’t any twists in time or paradox-related consequences to… all of this?” James asks, interrupting with a sweeping gesture.

 Marlene looks at him and first nods grimly, then shrugs. “As certain as anything can be in this field, as far as I can tell,” she says. “I’d still like to know exactly how and why something like this might happen, which’d require a closer look and probably a few letters to people who know more about this sort of thing than I do, but… sure. Why not? The impossible has happened.”

 “I personally find another conclusion far likelier,” Dorcas says, arms crossed and scowling even deeper than before, speaking up for the first time in what feels like ages. “How _certain_ are you that any time-travel took place in the first place? Impossible? My first guess would be _imposter_.”

 Harry isn’t as surprised as he wishes he was at this sort of accusation.

 “He’s _not_ an imposter,” Regulus snaps, before Harry can even think to defend himself. “He knows far too much about things he should have no way of knowing. I have examined Harry’s every action and word and as _anyone_ or _anything_ else but who he presents himself to be, he makes no sense whatsoever.”

 “Yeah, well, your judgement means shit to me,” Dorcas says flatly.

 “Dory,” Lily says.

 “Don’t ‘ _Dory_ ’ her,” Marlene chides. “She’s _right._ ”

 Regulus sits tall and proud again, somehow managing to stare down his nose from his seat. “No, she _isn’t._ I defected before I met Harry. I made the decision to kill the Dark Lord on my own and sought out one of his Horcruxes when Harry appeared to help me. If he is here to kill anyone, it’s _me_ and he’s done a terrible job of it.”

 There’s a brief silence in the kitchen, at that. Harry doesn’t know what to say; he doesn’t think that any argument or defence from him would actually help at the moment. Marlene’s smile is tight, Dorcas looks mutinous, and Lily and James Potter are looking thoughtful but undecided.

 “Reggie,” Sirius says.

 Harry and Regulus both turn to look at him, still leaning in the doorway. He’s not exactly glaring anymore, but he’s not smiling either; he looks very grim… very… serious.

 “You can shout and insult us all you want,” he says. “But it’s not going to do anything. We can’t take your word for it… the time-travel or your quitting. Your word’s not good enough, Reggie”

 Regulus expression is painfully unsurprised and unaffected, like he knew that already and is faintly annoyed at having it said to his face for the hundredth time. He doesn’t even really look hurt, just closed off. Cold, calm, unimpressed.

 Proof, proof, _proof!_ Harry wracks his mind to come up with substance for their story. He knows several sensitive things about his parents; he already told them that Pettigrew is a traitor; and he can’t even predict something is going to happen because he knows very little about this point in time, he’s probably changed everything he knows about, and Divination is kind of a thing. What’s _proof_ that he and Regulus aren’t working for Voldemort right now? Real proof. To someone who isn't the Potters. 

 “…How about a Horcrux?” Harry says.

 “What about a Horcrux?” Lily answers, peering at him.

 “Would a Horcrux be proof that I’m at least not working for Vol- You-Know-Who? And neither is Regulus? Would giving you one of his Horcruxes prove that?”

 Lily and the rest of the room seem to think it over.

 “You must admit that the Dark Lord would never allow a piece of his soul to be held or threatened by your Order,” Regulus intervenes, having immediately caught on and pushing the point. “He’d never allow that. Not for you. And not for _me._ We would all be killed if he knew we _knew_ about them. If McKinnon can confirm the existence of a Horcrux, would you take that as proof?”

 “…I’d take it as a point in your favour,” Marlene says, before Lily can answer. When everyone in the room looks at her, she defends herself by saying, “My mother would kill me herself if I passed up the chance to get my hands on a Horcrux.”

 “I’d call it proof,” James agrees.

 “I’d call it the teeth of the trap,” Dorcas says flatly.

 “Ravenclaw’s lost diadem is at Hogwarts in the Room of Hidden Things,” Harry says. He told them this before as potential proof, but it’s more relevant now. “The Hogwarts house elves can show you where the room is; they call it the Come and Go Room; they use it all the time.”

 Hogwarts wasn’t exactly at its best when Harry went after the diadem, but since there isn’t a massive battle going on, the diadem is by leagues the easiest and safest Horcrux to get their hands on. Besides the locket, of course, which… Regulus isn’t volunteering. Harry thinks Regulus said something about holding it in reserve unless absolutely necessary, which Harry doesn’t really understand, but Regulus hasn’t summoned Kreacher yet and that would probably be an enormous mess.

 “Ravenclaw’s… lost… diadem,” Marlene repeats slowly. “Ravenclaw’s _lost_ diadem, which has been lost for a thousand years, is at Hogwarts and it’s a _Horcrux?_ ”

 “Yes,” Regulus says shortly, his tone drowning in unhelpfulness.

  _“How?”_

 “The Grey Lady,” Harry answers. “She’s Helena Ravenclaw, Rowena’s daughter. She was envious of her mother and stole it, then she ran away to Albania. Her mom sent the Bloody Baron after her, but, um, he was in love with her? And she didn’t want to go back. So she hid the diadem and the Bloody Baron killed her, then killed himself out of regret or something, and the diadem just sort of stayed there until Tom Riddle talked the story of Helena.”

 Harry looks around the kitchen at the various faces of disbelief. “You can ask her yourself if you like,” he says, defensively. “She doesn’t like the questions much… or people, I think… but she cares about Hogwarts and she definitely wants Tom dead.” 

 It takes a few beats of silence before Marlene finally says, “Who’s _Tom?_ ”

 Harry meets her disbelieving stare with one of his own; he can’t remember whether this was said already or not, and it really feels like someone ought to tell people the story of Tom Riddle instead of letting him use his stupid anagram.

 “V- You-Know-Who,” Harry says. “That’s his name. Tom Marvolo Riddle… Junior.”

 “…Junior,” James repeats.

 Harry looks at him. “Yeah.”

 “There’s a You-Know-Who _Senior_?”

 “Uh, no. Tom Riddle Senior is dead, You-Know-Who killed him ages ago,” Harry says. Dear Merlin, that’s a horrifying thought: Voldemort Senior and Junior. “And he was a Muggle.”

 “You-Know-Who's father was a-” James stares, incredulous.

 “Yeah, and his mother was a Squib.”

  _“What,”_ Regulus says.

 Harry turns to his companion besides him, who is somehow manages to look more disbelieving and shocked than everyone else in the room combined. Even though James’ jaw is hanging open, Lily’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of her face, and Dorcas Meadows just broke a cup.

 “Did I not mention that?”

 “ _No,_ ” Regulus says, very strongly. So strongly, in fact, that this singular word is so full of opinion that it probably has sentience just to have opinions of its own.

 “Oh, well, they were. Tom Riddle Senior and Merope Gaunt.”

 Regulus stares at him for a very long, very awkward moment, before he whirls on his brother. “Is this sort of thing not proof enough for you?” he demands. “Because he’s been doing this ever since I met him and I’m not sure the Dark Lord can kill me _enough_ for knowing this sort of thing.”

 “He’ll definitely try,” Harry mutters, a little offended and not entirely sure why. “He killed all his living family, more or less. He even framed his uncle for the murder of his father.”

 “ _Constantly,_ ” Regulus complains to Sirius.

 Sirius just stares back at him, looking between his brother and Harry, looking like he’s having difficulty remembering what words are. He looks a bit like he’d like to go and try his luck with the hallway again, but Regulus is looking at him very unhappily and _very_ expectantly.

 “That’s… troubling,” Sirius says finally.

 Regulus nods, posture finally slackening as he leans back in his seat, so very relieved that his brother agrees with him that Harry is definitely offended even if he still doesn’t know why.

 “Isn’t it?” Regulus says.

 Surprisingly, someone pipes up to agree with him willingly.

 “Very,” Marlene McKinnon says, flicking her wand at the broken cup on the floor. It comes together with sure clicks and settles wholly in the strainer with the crystal ball. “I have never in my life felt so fantastically outdone,” she complains. “How very dare you, Harry Potter.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I have been gone from this fic, I have managed to post a few other things! I have quite a bit of nice fic to my name now and if you're looking for more Harry Potter fic in particular, then [all of my HP fics can be found in this series here!](http://archiveofourown.org/series/282654) I would particularly recommend these two most recent one-shots: 
> 
> [**Or the Look Or the Words**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8274067) (HP) - GOF AU, Pure Feel-Good Fluff, One-Shot. _The change in their relationship happens during fourth year, when an exhausted and dateless Harry groans out the important question, “Why can’t we just go together?”_
> 
> [**Something in the Depths of the Dark**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8622892) (HP) - DH Canon AU, Angst, One-Shot. _You have been used, the both of you. It must end. You must finish this._ A short study of Severus Snape, in his perspective, using his final scene in the Shrieking Shack and giving it a bit of a twist.


	15. Something Old, Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks up, towards the castle on the horizon, and can barely believe his eyes at the sight of Hogwarts Castle whole, untouched by war and flame and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who forgot more or less everything they'd written before and, in the process of trying to figure that out, completely lost the plot again? I was going one direction, then I went this direction instead, but at the very least I have some very cool ideas for the next three chapters now. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience and support.

 “We can’t just break into Hogwarts,” Dorcas says, scowling again, but this time at Marlene.

 “Why not? Who said we even had to break in? Why can’t we just Floo ol’ McGonagall and tell her I’m looking for a family artifact in this ‘Come and Go Room’?”

 “You are _not_ going Horcrux hunting on your own,” Dorcas says.

 Marlene rolls her eyes and doesn’t look at all concerned for her personal safety, whether threatened by a Horcrux or by her extremely unhappy housemate. She and Dorcas are sitting on a sofa together, one of two in the massive, extremely messy living room that Marlene moved their conversation to, and they look to be in a small, argumentative world of their own. Again.

 “So you come with,” Marlene says.

 “I don’t _count_.”

 “I’ll take Black, then. The first one, not the baby.”

 “He doesn’t count either.”

 Sirius, sitting in the armchair to Marlene’s left, stirs a lump of sugar into his tea. He looks bored, rather than offended. It’s only the tension in his shoulders and the wand on his thigh that reveal he is actually paying attention, most likely specifically to his brother to his left, who is sitting with perfect, stiff posture on the second sofa with Harry.

 “We could break in, though, if we had to,” James says, from his armchair to Dorcas’ right, across from Sirius. “It’s not that hard.”

 “They probably have all your secret passageways marked, dear,” Lily says, from her perch on James’ armrest. “Do you really think the Headmaster doesn’t know about them?”

 “Well… no,” James admits. “But…”

 “He might leave them open anyway,” Sirius says, “At least to Order members.”

 “Exactly!”

 Lily looks down at her husband’s triumphant face, looking very much like she wants to argue that point, as does Dorcas. But neither of them seem to have the words to argue that the Hogwarts Headmaster wouldn’t do something like that.

 “I still don’t see why we can’t walk through the front door,” Marlene says. “Or why I can’t just go do that on my own, right now.”

 “You’re blind as a bat, that’s why,” Dorcas snaps.

 Marlene frowns, then says in an almost offended sort of voice, “Bats aren’t blind.”

 “Harry and Reggie want to leave the Headmaster out of this, for some reason,” Sirius says, taking a sip of tea and giving the two boys a sidelong look. “Reggie doesn’t want to even tell him what’s happening at all. It was one of his ‘conditions’.”

 “And we’re _listening_ to that?” Dorcas demands.

 Regulus has stiffened again and is glaring at her, and all Harry can really do is sip his cool cup of tea and try not to lose himself in feelings of guilt and shame and fear. He wants to speak up, to explain, but at the same time, he doesn’t even know if he has the words to explain why seeing Dumbledore might finally make him break into a million pieces. He doesn’t even know if he knows why.

 He just… _can’t._

 “Yes, because it’s not negotiable,” Regulus says loftily. “I’ll work with you, but _not_ with him and not for him. _I_ don’t trust the man. I don’t trust him to have my or Harry’s best interests in mind.”

 “I don’t care what you think,” Dorcas replies, voice flat.

 Regulus makes the strangled cat noise again.

 “Dory,” Lily says.

 “…What.”

 “ _You_ don’t even _like_ the Headmaster,” Lily points out, in a tone of voice and expression that seems to be the version of an adult scolding another adult.

 “Yeah, don’t you kinda hate him? Like, a lot? I know you hate pretty much everybody, but-”

 “Shut up,” Dorcas says, glaring.

 Marlene takes a deep breath and says very seriously, “No.”

 Harry comes back into the conversation, out of dangerous memories, to look curiously at Dorcas. She’s clearly no Death Eater and he doubts she’s a purist, so what reason does she have to hate Albus Dumbledore? Granted, she seems the type to hate pretty much everybody, but still.

 “We’re not telling Professor Dumbledore anything… yet,” James says firmly. “He’s a busy man and, working by the assumption that all of this isn’t some elaborate setup or dream, then we’re going to have to compromise on this stuff.”

 “And the less people that know Reggie’s defected, the better,” Sirius adds, looking towards his younger brother and meeting his eyes.

 “Stop calling me _Reggie._ ”

 “No,” Sirius says. “The less people that know Reggie’s alive, the better.”

 “You think the old man can’t keep a secret?” Marlene asks, curious, again in the way that suggests she already knows she’s guessing wrong.

 “I think the Order’s already feeling the pressure of our limited spies,” Sirius says.

 Regulus immediately takes in a sharp breath, but it takes Harry a moment longer to figure out what that sentence means. Spies? If this is before the prophecy, that means they… don’t have Snape playing double-agent yet.

 “…I thought you told them you weren’t going to do that,” Lily says, frowning fiercely towards Sirius but not at him. Beside her, James looks furious beyond words. “Are they _still_ asking? You told us they stopped.”

 Sirius takes a swig of tea like it’s hard liquor and says, “They did. Mostly.”

 “ _Sirius,_ ” James says, scowling.

 “ _James,_ ” Sirius mimics, before he sighs and then shrugs with unfair grace. “Well, if Remus gave in, then I’m eventually going to stop telling them to go fuck themselves, right?”

 James Potter looks… like he wants to murder someone, or rather like he wants to and he’s going to murder someone. Harry has to wonder if that’s what he looks like when he’s really, really angry, because if he looked anything like that, it’s no wonder people can think he’s a little scary when he’s mad. It’s strange being on the other end of another version of his face.

 “I’m going to have a word with-”

 “I can handle myself, thanks, Mum,” Sirius drawls, scowling back. “I’m not exactly going to run out of ‘ _fuck no_ ’s. I’ve an unlimited supply.”

 James makes an angry sound. “That’s not the point-!”

 “It kind of is,” Marlene interjects casually. “After all, if they can’t get Black one to go with it, then a turncoat, pre-made Death Eater, baby Black… maybe that’s the better _and_ easier option. Less guilty feeling one too.”

 Regulus’ breathing is entirely unstable now, even though Harry can tell his companion is trying to stay calm and regulate himself. If he and Regulus were still holding hands or pressed together, Harry doesn’t doubt that he would be able to feel Regulus’ frigid tension and the racing of his heart. This isn’t good, and Harry wants very much to do something, to say something, to help Regulus stay in one piece like Regulus has been helping him. 

 Harry reaches out to take Regulus’ hand. He was right, Regulus seizes Harry’s hand like a lifeline.

 “You don’t think they’d give him the same right of refusal,” Lily says, her voice forthright and unwavering. The frankness with which she says it is nearly as terrible as the words themselves, but Harry in this moment can’t think of anything as terrible as these words.

  _(“And what will you give me in return, Severus?”_

_“In- in return? …Anything.”)_

 Sirius gives Lily a wan smile. She doesn’t return it, her hand on her husband’s shoulder as James Potter looks like he might be sick. On the other couch, Dorcas Meadows looks surprised in her angry way, and Marlene McKinnon is staring consideringly at Harry. When their eyes meet, she doesn’t give any sort of reaction to him catching her watching him.

  _(“My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?”)_

 “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Sirius says loftily, raising his teacup in a mock toast, before he sighs disgustedly. “It’ll only get worse, after...” He trails off. 

  _(“I prefer not to put all my secrets in one basket, particularly not a basket that spends so much time dangling on the arm of Lord Voldemort.”)_

 Regulus’ breathing is shallow. His grip on Harry’s hand is strangling.

 “Some of us don’t have the luxury of a Light family to protect us from being put to use,” Sirius says. Not bitterly, oddly enough, just in a matter-of-fact sort of manner. Like a comment on the weather.

  _(“How many men and women have you watched die?”_

_“Lately, only those whom I could not save.”)_

 “Sirius,” James says, looking pained.

 “It’s not… It’s just the price of being the Blacks’ black sheep.”

  _(“You have used me.”)_

 “…How long has this been going on?”

 Sirius sighs. “Nothing’s been _going on._ I’m making a _point._ ”

 “And doing it poorly,” Dorcas says.

  _(“Meaning?”)_

 “My family and I mutually disowned each other when I was sixteen, after years of fighting, and they _still_ manage to make me untrustworthy… and for good reason,” Sirius says, with a dismissive gesture towards his younger brother. “Reggie won’t stand a chance.”

  _(“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you.”)_

 “The less people that know he’s alive, the better.”

  _(“Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me-”)_

 Regulus takes a deep breath and says, strained, “I can handle myself.”

 Sirius snorts. “No, you can’t.”

  _(“-you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter-!”)_

 “Should we really be having this conversation in front of _him_?” Dorcas demands.

  _(“…But this is touching, Severus.”)_

 “Why not?” Sirius says, with another graceful shrug. “Whether he’s lying or not -”

 “I’m not lying.”

 “- he’s not going back.”

  _(“Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?”)_

 “I _can_ handle myself,” Regulus repeats, a little more forcefully.

 Sirius turns on his younger brother, eyebrows raised and says, “Do you _want_ to?”

 “…I could.”

 “Sure,” Sirius says, looking back towards the other occupants of the room. “Look, it’s just not happening. They can argue ‘greater good’s until they’re blue in the face, but I’m not tossing Reggie back to our loving family. It'll end terribly. He’s soft as butter, look at him, he’ll spill everything… or they’ll kill him.”

 Regulus flinches, then tries to pretend he didn’t.

  _(“For_ him _?! _Expecto Patronum!”)__

 “So, you’re really against bringing the Headmaster into this, aren’t you?” Lily says.

 “Yeah… turns out,” Sirius answers. “If it works out, he doesn’t ever need to know, does he?” 

 “…Alright, good to know.”

 “Harry.”

  _(“…After all this time?”)_

 “Harry.”

  _(“…Always.”)_

 Something pokes Harry in the side _hard_ and his head snaps up. “What?”

 “Harry,” Marlene McKinnon says for the third time. “Are you alright, there?”

 Harry takes a moment to blink the silvery glow out of his eyes and look around the room, realizing that everyone is looking at him again and Regulus just poked him in the side. He’d been paying attention to the conversation, he swears, but… at the same time… he can’t quite blink the image of tears behind half-moon glasses out of his eyes.

 “Yeah,” he says, reaching up with his free hand to rub at his eyes. “Fine.”

 “Where’s ‘fine’ on a scale of _most_ people’s one to ten?” Marlene continues, putting her elbow on an armrest and her chin in her hand. “Most people being those who haven’t had actual-death and impossible time-travel experiences.”

  _“Fine,_ ” Harry repeats, more tired than frustrated. He’s exhausted actually, it’s been a long day. “If we’re going to get the diadem now, can we just _go_?”

 “Well, that’s what I’ve been saying, but -”

 “No,” Dorcas says.

 “- that keeps happening.”

 Harry finds himself sighing and looks to Regulus. “How about that locket then?”

 “Locket?” Marlene repeats, eager.

 Regulus frowns and doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “I don’t think now the right time for the locket,” he says firmly, and Harry only barely resists the urge to groan loudly. Regulus will have to give up the locket and stop holding it as “leverage” eventually, or actually use it eventually.

 “A locket belonging to Salazar Slytherin is one of the Horcruxes,” Harry says, instead of pressing Regulus. This room is tense enough and if they don’t want to bring Regulus back from the dead, maybe it’s best not to bring an overemotional Kreacher into things just yet.

 “Where is it?”

 “A cave filled with hundreds of Inferi,” Harry says.

 There is a moment of silence, before James gives a low whistle.

 “You’re not lying about that, are you?” he says, looking exasperated with this whole situation.

 Harry shrugs. “Haven’t yet.”

 Except he is about the real locket being there and has probably lied a few times already, and there’s no counting all the lies he’s telling by omission. He’s basically a bunch of lies in a trenchcoat by this point, actually. More lie than person. There’s very little about him that feels real anymore.

 “Alright, I’m taking Harry to Hogwarts to get this Horcrux,” Lily says. “If we’re doing this, let’s get on with it already.”

 “Alright,” James says, before: “Wait, what?”

 “You can come,” Lily allows generously. “Everyone else can stay here.”

 “Oh, come on!” Marlene says, throwing up her hands. 

 “No!” Regulus snaps.

 “You can have the Horcrux once we’ve got it,” Lily says to Marlene, then to Regulus says, “And yes. You’re not coming into Hogwarts just yet, we’re not going to go anywhere near the Headmaster or tell him anything, and we’re all coming straight back here afterwards, alright?”

 “Not alright, I’m not letting you take-”

 “Reggie, you were gonna have to let go of his hand eventually,” Sirius says, looking bemused.

 Harry can feel heat burning up his neck and over his skin, but it’s Regulus who lets go of Harry’s hand as though it’s actually on fire. Regulus folds his hands in his lap and sits in a posture so stiff and proper that it actually looks physically painful to hold. He glares at Sirius, while Harry looks helplessly towards James and Lily, who look a little amused themselves.

 Harry thinks he hears Marlene give a quiet cackle and sees Dorcas crack something actually resembling a smile. It’s probably a trick of the light, though, because Dorcas is frowning at Lily again in the next second, even though Lily is unaffected and looking towards Harry.

 “It’s fine,” Harry says to Regulus, pulling himself to his feet. “This sounds good.”

 Regulus gives him a look that can be interpreted as a lot of different things. _This isn’t good at all, what are you, an idiot,_ is definitely one of them. _Don’t you dare leave me alone with my brother, I might try to murder him if he talks again,_ is another. The expression of calm frustration he’s been wearing is sort of at odds with the pink of his face and the tension in his shoulders.

 “Fine,” Regulus says, settling back into his seat.

 “Alright, then, if that’s done,” Lily says, getting to her feet and putting her teacup on top of a stack of board games on top of a hamper. A flick of her wand banishes the cup and saucer towards the kitchen, and another does the same with James and Harry’s tea. “Let’s go.”

  _Finally,_ Harry finds himself thinking, grateful to be doing something again, even though he’s tired and about to be alone with two people he can barely talk in front of. He wastes no time in following Lily towards the door to the disastrous hallway, leaving James to hurriedly pull himself out of his armchair and snatch up his Invisibility Cloak to follow.

 “Be back soon,” James promises the room.

 “I’ll wait with baited breath,” Sirius says boredly. “Please hurry.”

 “Bye,” Harry says, after he realizes he ought to be polite.

 Regulus just nods stiffly at him, Sirius does something similar, Dorcas ignores him, but Marlene grins and wriggles her fingers in a wave.

 “Don’t let the watering can trip you on the way out,” she says to them.

 Harry doesn’t know how to answer that, and he couldn’t say anything even if he knew. He’s too busy trying to navigate the disastrous front hallway to really form words, as is the young man that could have been his father – making sure they don’t trip and skewer themselves on something is an intensive business – but luckily, the young woman that could have been his mother answers for them.

 “Clean your house!” Lily shouts, already at the front door. “We’ll be back for dinner!”

 James and Harry manage to stumble out of the mess, out of the house, and onto the front path, and Lily slams the front door shut behind them. There’s a clunk of the doorknob and click of the lock, and they’re all left on the doorstep again. Outside, alone, with no company except plants and the path.

 They start walking down the path, towards the gate and the road. 

 “What’ll we do if they all kill each other?” James says.

 “They won’t do that,” Lily says. “Slightly maimed with slaughtered egos, at worst.”

 “That’s not reassuring.”

 “Marl will supervise.”

 “That’s really not reassuring,” James says.

 “I dunno,” Harry says without thinking. “I kinda like her.”

  She’s sort of unnerving, of course, and he doesn’t really know much about her. But Marlene McKinnon is kind of funny and she’s got a sharp and quick way about her words even without that. She’s very straightforward too. She kind of reminds him of Ginny.

 James and Lily both turn to look at him, walking slightly behind them. James is slightly taller than him and Lily is quite a bit shorter, so he can’t really meet both their eyes at once, but it doesn’t matter because they quickly look at each other. James looks sort of aghast, but Lily’s expression reads smug.

 “Hah,” Lily says, as she opens the gate.

 “And what exactly does that prove?” James demands.

 “Everything.”

 “That’s not an argument.”

 “Is too.”

 “Is _not._ ”

 Harry has to pinch his arm to reassure himself this is happening. “Uh… are we going, or not?”

 “You have terrible taste in witches,” James tells him flatly. “Wait in the alley behind Honeydukes.”

 “…What.”

 “Sore loser,” Lily says, taking Harry’s arm in hers. “Seeya in Hogsmeade.”

 Whatever argument James is about to make is cut off by a sudden _twist._ The world yanks away. He wonders if Regulus’ world is spinning too.

 

 ~

 

 The last time Harry was in Hogsmeade was… last night, actually. When he and Regulus popped by the Shrieking Shack confusing their Apparation trail, walking towards the outskirts of Hogsmeade before Apparating away again. But some part of Harry still thinks back to about five days ago, to Caterwauling Charms and Dementors and Death Eaters enforcing curfews, right before the fighting started at Hogwarts.

 It’s a little strange to see the village in the daylight again. He keeps expecting the worst and it’s strange to see so many places whole. He looks up, towards the castle on the horizon, and can barely believe his eyes at the sight of Hogwarts Castle whole, untouched by war and flame and death.

 It breaks his heart. Quietly. Just a bit.

 Lily and Harry appear not on the outskirts of the village, but directly behind Honeydukes. Once they appear, Lily wastes no time in pressing him closer to the wall, behind the safety of the bins. Hogwarts disappears behind rooftops and chimneys, and Harry tries not to think about… anything… more or less. Especially not how he was here not even a week ago, and now he’s here again, in the past, with his not-mother, trying to do the _exact same thing._

 “D’you mind if I Disillusion you?” Lily says.

 “Not at all,” Harry says, and winches at the tap on his head and the feeling like eggs broken over his head and crawling all over his skin. He minds the feeling, but not the reasoning.

 Lily quickly Disillusions herself as well, and they wait.

 “So, Harry,” she says, after a minute, when nobody’s come by. Even the main street of the village sounds fairly quiet. “What’s your favorite school subject?”

 “Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Harry says. “Yours?”

 “Charms, definitely, but I’ve always liked Potions too. Why Defense?”

 “It’s… interesting,” Harry settles on, after a moment of thought. “And really useful. It was my best subject… whenever we had a competent teacher.”

 “Ugh, that was _still_ happening?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Any actually interesting teachers over the years?”

 “…Yeah,” Harry settles on, after a pause. “They were all pretty interesting.”

 “That’s nice.”

 “Uh, not so much, actually.”

 “Oh,” Lily says. “That sort of interesting. Eccentric?”

 Harry doesn’t even know where to begin. “Sure.”

 There’s another pause, made difficult to understand by Harry’s inability to see Lily’ face. Harry would elaborate, but he doesn’t know how to explain that every single one of his Defense teachers nearly killed him at least once, and four of them actively intended to. It wasn’t all bad, really, but it definitely sounds bad when he tries to find the words for it.

 “One of them was a Death Eater,” Harry tries to explain, but wait, that’s not right. “Actually, two of them were Death Eaters, but only one of them was working for Volde- You-Know-Who.” And that’s not even counting the Carrows, which Harry doesn’t, and whatever Quirrell was.

 Lily is silent for a long moment, before she says, “I have to be frank with you, Harry. I want to believe you most of the time, except when you say things like that. I don’t disbelieve you, it’s just that… and I can’t believe I’m saying this, given the inherent ridiculousness magic gives any life summary… you seem to have had the strangest life of anyone I’ve ever met.”

 “That’s alright,” Harry says. “I’ve had the strangest life of anyone I’ve ever met too.”

 “…That’s… How old are you again?”

 “Seventeen. I was supposed to be eighteen in three months.”

 Lily sighs, a shimmer against the brick wall they’re standing against. “You’re about two years younger than me, then,” she says, in an amused sort of voice that Harry finds more infectious than disheartening. “I’m far too young to have a teenage son.”

 “I’m far too old to have a teenage mother,” Harry replies.

 “Hah.”

 “…I’m glad to have met you, though, no matter how strange this is.”

 There’s another pause, a last one, before Lily says, “I think I’m glad to have met you too.”

 Harry can feel something light and bubbly under his heart, against his lungs, like he swallowed a Cheering Charm. He doesn’t know what’s happening, really. He doesn’t know this girl, nearly a complete stranger, who doesn’t know him. But those few, off-hand words still matter to him, to something deep and desperate in his chest, maybe more than they should.

 “Why Charms?” Harry says.

 “What?”

 “You said Charms was your favorite subject.”

 “Oh,” Lily says. “Well… I guess because it’s so… everything at once? It’s practical, of course, and very useful, and when it gets complex, it can get _really_ interesting, you know. Charms opens up into every field and it can do anything. But it can also be simple and silly and… fun.”

 Harry thinks back to Charms class, Flitwick, assignments that involving dancing fruit and floating feathers, loud noises and bright lights, and things that were so brilliantly, undeniably _magic._ Charms was definitely his favorite subject before third year came along. Favorite class for most of his Hogwarts experience, actually.

 “Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Charms is pretty great. Flitwick’s brilliant.”

 “The best. Almost made me wish I’d been a Ravenclaw.”

 “Eh, I wouldn’t go that far.”

 Lily makes an amused sound. “You were a Gryffindor, weren’t you?”

 “How d’you guess? Was it something I said or, y’know, the general everything?”

 “The general everything, really,” Lily answers. “And a really lucky guess.”

 Harry laughs, lightly. It leaves a good feeling in his chest, standing here against a brick wall, behind some bins, with the girl that might have been his mother, making small talk. He could do without the dribble yolk of Disillusionment and the November chill, but this is… it’s not bad at all.

 It could be worse.

 “So what are we waiting for exactly?” Harry asks.

 “Exactly’s a little much to ask,” Lily answers, “but in general: James.”

 And with that perfect introduction, there’s a knock on the back door of Honeydukes Sweet Shop – a knock with a distinct pattern to it – from someone on the inside. Harry tenses, but Lily’s shimmering form steps forward and he thinks he see her raise an arm. Lily knocks back, nearly identical but maybe one tap different, and then she steps back over to the side, next to Harry.

 There’s a click, a squeak, and the back door swings open.

 “Come on,” Lily whispers.

 Disillusionments don’t work all that well in broad daylight _and_ at close range, and that’s probably the only reason Harry manages to see Lily’s haze in the air disappear through the open door. With this and how well she disguised herself in the graveyard, she really hadn’t been kidding when she said Charms was her favorite subject. Harry would love to learn how she’s managing it.

 Harry follows Lily through the door and by an invisible hand, it closes behind with another faint squeak and click. They’re standing in a busy kitchen. There’s no people, but there’s several mixing bowls the size of bathtubs hard at work with their contents, a couple pots bubbling on a stove, and appliances and tools that Harry has never even seen before busy with cakes and molds and peeling and chopping. It’s like the Burrow only professional, with the same unsupervised magic and heavenly smells. He’s never seen this part of Honeydukes before.

 “Wow,” he says.

 “Don’t lick anything or the spoons’ll scream,” says the disembodied voice of James Potter.

 “…Really,” says Lily’s voice.

 “Hey, I was twelve and I’ve learned my lesson.”

 There’s a sigh, then, “Where to now?”

 “The cellar,” Harry answers, because there’s no other reason for them to break into Honeydukes. Well, at least, no _good_ reason. “Right?”

 “Lead the way,” James says.

 Harry ducks under a mixer and leads the way towards the front storeroom, passing the sounds of customers and sales in the shop, and then down the staircase into the Honeydukes cellar. Lily lights the way with a soundless spell, sending little blue wisps ahead that give them just enough lights to see by before winking out like snuffed candles.

 “I can’t believe there’s a secret passageway out of the castle that leads to _Honeydukes,_ ” Lily says, once they’ve reached the bottom. She cancels the charms on herself and Harry, both of them slipping out of thin air around the floor tile Harry’s moving aside. “Of all places. How long has this been here?”

 “Since the 1930s, thereabouts,” James’ disembodied voice answers. “I’ve told you this before.”

 “…It’s still ridiculous. How did you even _find_ it?”

 Harry looks up at the space where his father’s voice is coming from, curious as to the answer to that as well. The Marauder’s Map never failed to awe him, especially as he grew older and realized exactly how much _work_ an enchanted item like that would take, and there are little hints and notes throughout the map that he really had to wonder how anyone even stumbled upon them, much less figured out how they worked. Ridiculous is definitely a word for it.

 “We went looking for it,” James answers. “I knew it was there already.”

 “Yes, but _how_?”

 “Ladies first,” James says, gesturing towards the hole in the floor that Harry’s uncovered.

 Lily frowns at him, then rolls her eyes, and clambers down into the floor. “There aren’t any ladies here and you know it,” she mutters as she disappears through the passageway, guided by blue wisps, which seem to flicker anxiously around the entrance when her vibrant red hair disappears entirely from view.

 This leaves Harry standing awkwardly by the entrance with an invisible man. He assumes that his father – who isn’t really his father, he must realize time and time again – is wearing his Invisibility Cloak again. Harry is starting to realize, also, why exactly Ron and Hermione didn’t like interacting with him while he was wearing his own cloak, because he has no idea where he should be speaking or whether or not trying to go down the tunnel will result in heads knocking together.

 Thankfully, James says, “After you.”

 Harry nods and slips down into the passageway like he has a dozen times before, jumping the last few rungs and landing softly next to Lily. He moves out of the way of the entrance to stand next to Lily, who calls up to her husband.

 “Waiting on you, dear.”

 There’s footsteps and a thump, and the floor tile closes over the entrance again. The three of them are left in the dark passageway with only Lily’s lights as company. The way is dusty but not filthy, and small like a regular household hallway now, and stretches out far ahead of them.

 “Take off the cloak,” Lily says, at the exact same moment as James starts doing exactly that.

 “Yes, love,” James says, grinning, as he throws the cloak over his arm like another person might a sweater again. Then he sets off down the passageway without further ado, leading Harry and Lily while the lights lead him. “This way, everybody.”

 After a few seconds, Harry asks, “So, how did you know about this passageway?”

 “My parents knew Mr. and Mrs. Flume,” James answers. “Mum and Mrs. Flume were good friends, and they told me… In hindsight, they probably meant _emergencies only,_ but, y’know: eleven.”

 “Mr. and Mrs. Flume being… the shop owners?” Lily asks before Harry can.

 “That’s them.”

 “They _know_ about this passageway?” Harry asks.

 “Well… of course,” James says, as though that’s not horrifyingly new information that Harry never even thought about. “They’re the ones that helped build it back during the war. Between all the fighting and Grindelwald’s purist movement, they thought it was a good idea to have another potential evacuation route in case the war ever came to the castle.”

 Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

 “So this is an _official_ secret passageway,” Lily says.

 “Sort of, but I’m pretty sure almost only the Professor and the Flumes know about it. I, uh, was kinda eavesdropping on my mum and I'm pretty sure that's the only reason they told me. After Grindelwald was over, evacuation routes and other wartime measures meant less. Even now, my guess is that Professor Dumbledore is keeping this passageway up his sleeve for some day when the school _really_ needs it.”

 It’s just them, the three of them, walking along a perfectly normal passageway, one that Harry’s travelled at least a dozen times before. Harry feels tired and relatively calm, despite the excitement of going somewhere with his parents, and he’s entirely present at the moment. His feet ache, there’s a knot of stress behind his spine, and his shoes scuff against the floor as he walks forward.

 “Alright, so what are we going to do if your guess is wrong and going down this passageway sets off some sort of alarm?” Lily asks. It could have been a no-nonsense demand, but Lily looks more amused than anything else. “Besides throw your cloak over Harry and pretend we were sneaking back to snog in a broom closet for the sake of missed opportunities?”

 James laughs and admits, “That’s pretty good, actually. I was coming up with nothing.” He looks over his shoulder with a grin, and asks, “Harry? You got anything?”

 “Yeah, I really didn’t need to hear that.”

 James laughs louder and Lily makes her amused noise again.

 And yet, despite the realness of the moment, despite his presence in this moment, Harry feels several other moments pass him by. He was here, not long ago, in another passageway with different people, off to do the same thing, war looming behind him and battle snapping at his heels.

 Harry doesn’t lose himself again, his nails are pressing into his palm and he’s doing to utmost to focus, and yet… and yet… he can still hear the hurried scrape of benches and the stampede of evacuation, then the stomp and crackle and screams of the fight. He remembers the clouds of dust, the flash of curses, and the rumble of breaking stone and giant roars. As whole as Hogwarts looked, as much as everything has changed, some part of him can’t forget the shadow and rage of Voldemort always only a step or two behind him. Some part of him expects to step into the castle and to have never left.

 The emptiness in the back of his head unnerves him and relieves him in equal measure, a balance that’s barely keeping him afloat. _Surely that’s over,_ he wants to think but doesn’t dare. The thoughts – the secret – stirs there in the back of his head, in the too quiet space. He ignores it.

 Thoughts of Ron and Hermione rise as well, but he ignores those too.

 “I’m not coming up with any alarms,” James says, waving his wand as they walk. “There might be some over the entrance at the school’s end, if anywhere, but there’s none here.” He keeps talking, over Lily opening her mouth to ask another question. “If we can’t disarm the alarms, we’ll try the other passageways. If that doesn’t work… I have no idea.”

 “We improvise,” Lily says. “Alright.”  

 Harry thinks about it for a moment, then says, “If you can slip onto school grounds in Animagus form and make it up to the Room of Requirement, the room can make new secret passageways.” He doesn’t know _how_ exactly, and he’s not entirely sure Neville knew how exactly either, but desperation seems to do the trick with that room.

 “Really?” Lily says – maybe disbelieving, maybe horrified.

 “I dunno how, since I didn’t do it, but a friend of mine really needed an out of the school and the room gave him a secret passageway to the Hog’s Head,” Harry supplies.

 He hopes that the room can do more places than the Hog’s Head, if necessary, because he doesn’t much fancy getting caught by Aberforth Dumbledore. The man hadn’t seemed at all bad, but… he can’t handle that right now.

 “You used that passageway?” James asks, squinting at him a little.

 “Yeah,” Harry says, considering mentioning that he was also breaking into Hogwarts at the time. He decides that maybe he should quit while he’s ahead with dropping surprising information, at least for right now. “Straight from the pub to the school.”

 “…I can’t believe we never found this room,” James says. He sounds a little heartbroken. “How did we even miss it? We could have done _twice as much_ with a room like that.”

 “Twice nothing is still nothing,” Lily says.

 Harry snorts, while James makes a dismayed _aww_ sound and protests, “Hey, we did a _lot_ in school!”  

 “You did,” Lily admits. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

 James gasps, dramatically, and then mimes a blow to the heart. He makes a mournful wounded noise. Harry has to repress a laugh, barely manages, and by the pursing of Lily’s lips, she’s repressing her own enormous grin.

 They continue along the passageway and, before Harry can really understand it or pull himself out of the conversation and memories and lurking thoughts, they reach the end. His heartbeat stutters, looking at the door that’s part of the One-Eyed Witch statue. Hogwarts is on the other side, he realizes.

 “I’m not seeing any alarms,” James says, after a moment of spells.

 “Neither am I,” Lily agrees, lowering her wand after a few spells of her own.

 “So, this seems to be working. How are we doing this?”

 Lily ponders this for a second, then says, “Your cloak over Harry. Disillusionment Charms for us. Your cloak is more impenetrable than any charms and he’s the one who can’t be seen.”

 “And if anyone catches us,” James says with a nod, “we’re here for a nostalgic snog. Sorry, Harry.”

 “’S’alright,” Harry says. 

 “Seventh floor, was it? In case we get lost.”

 “Opposite the tapestry of a Barnabus the Barmy teaching trolls ballet, yeah.”

 James pulls the shimmering Invisibility Cloak from his arm, where it whispers to the floor as he holds it out in one hand. “That’s definitely barmy. Here. Don’t lose it. No eating, drinking, and please keep all arms and legs inside the cloak at all times.”

 Harry tries to give his father a reassuring smile. “I know how it works.”

 “I still reserve the right to give you the same rundown my father gave me.”

 “That’s a pretty poor rundown,” Lily says.

 Harry has to swallow his breath and restart his breathing, because his throat sort of breaks. Neither James nor Lily seems to notice.

 “I’m kind of making it up,” James admits. “I can’t remember all of it, honestly, I was too excited and Dad talked a _lot._ But basically he just said, ‘Don’t lose it. Have fun.’”

  _I did,_ Harry doesn’t say.

 “Thanks,” he says instead, a little hoarsely.

 “If I come up with something better, we’ll have to do this again properly at some point,” James comments, as Harry swings on the cloak with the ease of practice. “I mean, third time’s the charm, right? Lily, that’s the saying, right?”

 “That’s the one,” Lily agrees, reaching up with the wand to tap him on the head. “Hold still, Jim, dear.”

 “Thanks, love.”

 James Potter melts into the pattern of the walls, and Lily Potter quickly follows. The wisps of light that have been guiding them flicker out and Harry loses sight of his parents entirely. He almost panics, or at least it feels like he’s panicking, between the thunder of his heart and shortness of breath. This feels like some sort of dream; it’s been like something even the Mirror of Erised couldn’t manage to bring to life. The momentary pitch black and losing sight of them reminds Harry of too much at once.

  _(The castle was empty. He felt ghostly striding through it alone, as if he had already died.)_

 He’s entering Hogwarts, his home, a battlefield last he saw it, with his parents at his side.

 The Invisibility Cloak, an old precious thing, has been given to him by his father’s _own_ hand and it’s breaking his heart. His face is burning, his chest hurts, and his eyes water threateningly. The smooth fabric is a familiar comfort and everything surrounding it could break him if he let it.

 He remembers the last time he went somewhere wearing his Invisibility Cloak with his parents at his side. It wasn’t all that long ago and he doubts that he’ll ever manage to forget.

  _(“I thought he would come. I expected him to come.”)_

 “Alright, all good?” says Lily’s voice through the darkness.

  _(“I was, it seems… mistaken.”)_

 “Yes,” James answers. “Harry?”

  _(“You weren’t.”)_

 “Yeah,” Harry says.

 He says it perhaps a little too loudly, with all the force he can muster. He doesn’t want to sound afraid. If he was holding anything, though, it would have slipped from his fingers onto the forest floor.

 Harry takes a deep breath. His exhale makes the cloak ripple.

 “Great,” James says, “then let’s get going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, we're going back to Regulus for the next chapter. We're finally going to have some solid Black Brother interaction! (I hope. Also, interaction prob = arguing/confrontation/name-calling, bc y'know, they gotta get over their fucked up family situation somehow.) After that, more Potters. After that, McKinnon issues. We'll see how it goes. 
> 
> I'm too tired to answer comments and such right now, but I probably will soon. I have a project due on Jan 18 that's really important to me (this chapter may or may not have been written as 110% stress relief in my small blocks of free time). If you've sent me something recently and I haven't replied yet, it's because when I do engage with you all, I enjoy engaging with my full attention and a solid block of free time. Y'all tend to inspire me too much, so I can't right now for my sake. (Wish me luck!) 
> 
> Recs for this update include: 
> 
> [**Tell Me Whether He Is Dead**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9191315/chapters/20857637) (HP) - Post-DH AU, Fluff, 5+1 Things, One-Shot. Harry suffers a few side-effects of dying but not dying. “Hey, can someone help me with this? The mirror in the bedroom’s stopped working for me." “What do you mean ‘the mirror’s stopped working’?”
> 
> [ **As Green As A Fresh Pickled Toad**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/604762) (HP) (PODFIC) - Opalsong made a series of podfics based on my "as green as a fresh pickled toad" series! Which is a collection of HP ficlets (Hufflepuff Harry and Different Sortings AU, etc) and ramblings (Phil and Cassius and the GOF, Hogwarts students realizing Remus is a werewolf, etc) from my tumblr! Please drop by and give a listen and some love!


	16. A Stranger You Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus has been wanting to hear quite a lot of apologies from Sirius, but that isn’t one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of want to say that this chapter ended up being more interlude than plotty, but I think that would probably describe this entire fic. Anyway, it's been a while, I hope everyone promised not to have too high expectations. My RL projects are done, so the next chapter should be out a lot sooner, but I can't answer comments or anything rn bc my connection atm is terrible and it's really late. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter ends on a bit of a cliffhanger. I promise you that nothing bad is happening with this cliffhanger, it's just a bit of a twist and introduction of more characters. If you don't want to end on a cliffhanger, then stop at the "~" and you'll be golden.

 The door clicks shut and Regulus is made acutely aware once more that he hasn’t had a conversation approaching civil with his brother in years. Their last interaction was either frosty dismissals or a screaming row – one or the other. Unless he’s mistaken and it was actually both of them pointedly pretending that the other didn’t even exist. He cannot, for the life of him, now that he’s sitting across from his elder brother, remember why he thought this was a good idea.

 Except he can, actually, remember why he thought this was a good idea. He can even remember why he now thinks this is a good idea. The problem, it seems, is that goodness is a term that arises in opposition to options that are rather objectively terrible, and that Regulus has very little idea of how to now proceed.

 Where does he even begin to explain himself? Why should he even begin to explain himself? Where does he even begin to demand that Sirius explain himself in turn? Where do they begin again? And did they ever really properly end in the first place?

 …And do they really have to do this with McKinnon and Meadowes here? McKinnon is still staring, as she has been since she first laid eyes on Regulus and Harry, and Regulus is forced to wonder if McKinnons are ever taught that staring is rude. Unfortunately, of what he knows of this McKinnon in passing and what he’s learning now, even if they are taught, whether or not the lesson would stick for five minutes before falling off comes into question.

 And Meadowes… Meadowes is another matter. If Regulus was in the habit of embarrassing himself, he would be forced to admit that he has _no earthly_ idea who in the world Dorcas Meadowes is. He’s never seen this girl before in his life. Not once! He’s never even heard her name or her family name before. But here she is, glaring at him like he’s the mud crusted onto her boots given personification and seated on her sofa, and it is all Regulus can do not to demand this complete unknown either explain herself or _go away._

 The most embarrassing part about this is that she looks like she’s his age, is acquainted with both McKinnon and Lily Evans, seems to know _him,_ and is obviously a respectable herbologist if the impressive and neatly tended garden outside is anything to go by. She hasn’t sounded like a foreigner while insulting him, too. If Dorcas Meadowes attended Hogwarts during his time there, he’d at least have some reference for her face, but he doesn’t.

 Regulus glares at the tea he’d been served, untouched and cold on the side table, and weighs his options for answers. Meadowes herself looks like she’d rather hex him than tell him anything about herself, getting anything but mockery and misinformation out of Sirius is like regrowing bones on a good day, and McKinnon seems like she’d be an unnerving combination of both. He doesn’t like his chances with any of them. The Potters need to come back so he can use them as shielding and a source of information again, instead of sitting here unhappily with an embarrassing icebreaker for a terrible situation that will happen no matter what he says or does:

 Who in the world _is_ Dorcas Meadowes?

 On one hand, he might be distracting himself from dealing with Sirius, who’s either gained a deep appreciation for tea-drinking-based meditation or is ignoring him, by focusing on this. And also McKinnon, who still won’t stop staring. But on the other hand, Regulus is miffed enough at McKinnon’s presence and he doesn’t at all like having this unknown shoved into his plans and scowling at him. Now he has even more questions; he really doesn’t need even more questions.

 “If you wouldn’t mind, could I see your Dark Mark?”

 Regulus looks towards McKinnon, whose expression could only loosely be interpreted as ashamed – and loosely enough to let an erumpent through at that. Sirius and Meadowes are looking towards her with all the surprise and disbelief that Regulus refuses to let show on his face.

 “I’ve always wanted to get my hands on one,” McKinnon continues, falsely casual. “Just to have a look. Give me a hand, won’t you?”

 “…Merlin, fuck, Marlene,” Sirius says.

 “Oh, did I forget the magic word? Please, may I?”

 Regulus puts his right hand over his left forearm, as though his sleeve might Vanish if he doesn’t hold on. While he’s at it, he presses his right elbow against his stomach to try and suppress the dull pain growing in his lower abdomen. He can’t tell if it’s because he hasn’t eaten in some time or simply because of overwhelming amounts of stress, but either way, it’s not helping his efforts at composure and turning his thoughts towards more constructive things than petty hexes. 

 “I do mind,” Regulus says sharply. “No, you may not.”

 “Oh, well, worth a try,” McKinnon says, apparently unbothered by the room’s disbelief. “If you change your mind, let me know, hm?”

 Regulus’ hands feel numb, his gut aches, and he’s never disliked anyone so much as he dislikes McKinnon in this instant. Eavesdropping on Lily Evans and her friends is a _very_ different experience to interacting with them. He doesn’t really know how he thought this would go, but it wasn’t like this; however he thought it would go, it was better than this, somehow.

 “I’m not going to change my mind,” he says, his voice surprisingly cold even to his own ears.

 “How very Black of you,” Sirius murmurs. The remark is half-hidden by how he takes a sip of tea, and how Sirius doesn’t look at Regulus to his left, but instead keeps his eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

 If that’s how Sirius is going to behave, Regulus thinks with narrowed eyes and no small amount of panging annoyance, then he really has no room to talk about Black behavior. If that’s how he wants to go about things…

 “What does that mean?” Regulus demands.

 Sirius laughs, humorlessly, and says again to the opposite wall, “What do you think it means?”

 “I think it means you’re being childish about the fact that I’ve changed, or perhaps that you’re envious because you haven’t managed to mature past _twelve,_ ” Regulus says snidely. He’s not in the mood for this nonsense, Sirius really needs to back off before he gets hexed for being so stupid.

 Regulus’ brother laughs again, this time with what might be genuine amusement, and the sound really grates.

 “Envious,” Sirius repeats, finally casting a look towards his younger brother. His eyes are dancing, his lips curled in something like a smirk, and his tone is victoriously sarcastic. “Sure.”

 And doesn’t that burn more than any sort of outrage or derogatory remarks that Regulus’ brother could have thrown back at him. There is no crueler, sharper, more effective insult that Sirius could have given him than this bemused and self-satisfied tolerance and disbelief, because Regulus really didn’t need the reminder about the paths both of them were offered and chose to walk. He doesn’t think anything could infuriate him more than the casual, simple reminder that of their positions in life at the moment, Sirius has the superior and more enviable situation by far, and Regulus falls pathetically short.

 It’s enough to make him want to snarl even before Sirius glances pointedly at the hand Regulus has still protectively gripping his left forearm. Regulus’ brother has no right to look so smug.

 “Hey, now,” McKinnon says, raising her palms like they’re spooked hippogriffs. “I was just looking to break the silence. I mean, I was being serious – no pun intended – but let’s not make my house even more of a mess than it already is, mm?”

 “Clean it, then,” Regulus snaps back, near automatically, because she can stop poking her nose into their business any minute now – and this house is a wreck. It’s ridiculous; he can’t put a foot down without potentially breaking something and earning years of bad luck. No one needs a precariously balanced pile of used ritual candelabras. “What sort of a witch are you?”

 Meadowes’ scowl deepens further and she shifts on the sofa like she’s making to stand, but McKinnon’s posture, if it were possible, becomes even more relaxed. Her deep brown gaze seems to… pull back, in tandem with any tension, and it’s an unnerving shift – especially in a seer.

 “Witch enough to finish the fight you’re trying to start,” McKinnon says evenly.

 “It’s not our fault if you’re touchy about being stuck with your mistakes,” Meadowes adds.

 McKinnon fades back in, posture and gaze, and sighs.

 “Dory,” she chides.

 “Is this my house too, or not?” Meadowes says flatly.

 For the first time since Harry admitted that he arrived here by dying, something vulnerable again crosses McKinnon’s face. This time, it’s panic that McKinnon pushes down nearly as masterfully and quickly as a Black. Not bad for a bloodtraitor, probably.

 “It is,” McKinnon assures Meadowes.

 Meadowes, however, isn’t even looking at McKinnon. She’s glaring at Regulus, who glares right back, because he doesn’t know who she is and doesn’t care who she is. He aches all over, he wants the Potters back, and he’s not about to be shoved out of something so important by someone so irrelevant.

 “Believe me, if I could _give it_ over to you, I would,” Regulus tells both women, but particularly McKinnon. “But seeing as it’s attached to _my_ arm, I’m not about to hand over my person to your tender care for ‘a look’. I’m attached to my arm and would rather it remain attached to me.”

 There’s a beat of silence, in which McKinnon blinks at him and presumably takes a moment to consider this. Meadowes’ glare doesn’t lessen at all, but she doesn’t speak. Sirius is watching all of them, finger tapping restlessly against his teacup, and it’s all Regulus can do not to tell him to quit fidgeting. He waits for a response from either of the young women.

 Much to the room’s surprise, McKinnon laughs. It’s more of a bark of laughter than anything else, and Regulus feels on edge when she puts her chin in her hand and grins at him.

 “You’re funny,” McKinnon says, like she’s surprised. “I can actually see the brotherly resemblance now.”

 Regulus doesn’t gape because Blacks don’t – but if he did, he imagines he’d look at least as offended as Sirius does at the remark. Then he’d look even further offended because did Sirius have to look so offended at the prospect of their personalities and social performances having similarities?

 “Marl, that’s a _bit_  rich coming from you,” Sirius says.

 “If that’s a pun, I double agree,” McKinnon says, unconcerned. “I didn’t expect the brother you don’t talk about to be like this. I have to admit that I was expecting some odd mix between Bellatrix Black and Snape, if I’d been expecting anything.”

 Regulus thinks he’s even more offended now, and only mostly manages to muffle what is either a protest or simple frustration. While dear cousin Bella has everything to make her one of the Dark Lord’s favorites, there are certain… very distinct things that make Bella _Bella_ that Regulus has never tried or wanted to emulate. His family’s disappointment made his failure clear there.

 Severus Snape is… something else. Regulus isn’t close with the half-blood that Narcissa’s husband brought into the fold, though they stayed perfectly civil to each other. They haven’t had much opportunity or inclination to become more than acquaintances. As a younger wizard, Regulus hadn’t known what to do with a ragged half-blood who despised his elder brother, was friends with Lily Evans, and been oddly brilliant and hungry to prove himself, with no time for or interest in the quiet Black spare. He knows even less now.

 Severus Snape is… complicated, Regulus knows that much. He’s made a point to avoid Snape even more so than usual in past months – Snape and Narcissa and anyone who might be too sharp and too clever, who might have been able to see the truth of what Regulus was doing. Is there resemblance there? Regulus can’t see it.

 He can’t believe he just lumped Snape and _Cissy_ in the same category of people for a moment.

 “I didn’t get exactly what I expected, that’s for sure,” McKinnon continues.

 “Aren’t you a seer?” Regulus demands, unimpressed.

 “Yeah, and the first thing any seer worth their salt is gonna tell you is that everything’s subjective. No one’s going to expect or remember anything the exact same way,” McKinnon says. “That you’re not what I expecting isn’t a bad thing, baby Black. Especially since I wasn’t putting in too much effort in _you_ in comparison, you know, with everything else.”

 Regulus fixes his posture and then fixes McKinnon with his best stare.

 “Stop calling me that.”

 “Sure thing, Reg,” McKinnon answers, grin widening where it sits on her hand.

 Sirius snorts and Regulus can’t decide whether to glare at his elder brother or at McKinnon. Of all the people he had to be left with, why these three? Meadowes may kill him, Sirius isn’t being cooperative, and McKinnon is worse than Sirius – and worse: knows it.

 “Don’t call me that either.”

 “Don’t call you names; don’t poke at your arm,” McKinnon lists. “I renounce the brotherly similarly, you’re no fun.”

 “ _One_ of us had to be,” Regulus snaps back.

 Sirius taps his fingers against his teacup in an even faster and more annoying rhythm. “You really, really didn’t, Reggie,” he says, like it’s true.

 If it were possible to hex his elder brother by sheer will alone, Regulus would be doing that now. Although he without doubt would have managed it by now if it were possible. His stomach throbs with stress and bubbles with fury at yet another reminder that Sirius just doesn’t care to have any understanding of the concept of the Black Family’s heir and spare.

 “I _did,_ actually, and I’ll thank you to stop talking about things you don’t understand because you didn’t listen and ran away,” Regulus snaps. “Could you at least _pretend_ to have some concept of family responsibility?”

 “…Maybe we actually should have waited to have conversation until the Potters got back,” McKinnon says quietly to Meadowes, who is now slouching in her seat and has her arms crossed over her overalls.

 “This is your fault,” Meadowes says flatly.

 Sirius, like Regulus, ignores the exchange between the girls to glare at each other.

 “I’d rather have some concept of human decency, thanks,” Sirius answers. “If the loving old folks back home hadn’t seen that and family responsibility as mutually exclusive opposites, maybe we could have had conversation instead of shouting matches. If you actually bought their claptrap, then I’m sorry that you’re so gullible, Reggie. My condolences.”

 Regulus has been wanting to hear quite a lot of apologies from Sirius, but that isn’t one of them. It actually hurts, especially since it’s true. Regulus _did_ buy a lot of the family’s tradition and hatred and worldview, which have since mostly been proven some degree of wrong. He’s gullible, it’s true. It burns, from his throat to his gut.

 Poor, poor, gullible Reggie.

 Much to what will without doubt be his future shame, Regulus doesn’t even think about what he does next. He takes the hand resting on his arm and moves it down to the cuff of his sleeve, then flips his arm over and out in front of him, yanking up his sleeve to bare the much spoken about Mark.

 “ _Here,_ ” he snarls. “Have a _look._ ”

 In response to his sudden and violent movement, Sirius and McKinnon both drew their wands at surprising speed. Sirius’ wand was pointed at Regulus’ chest before his sleeve had reached his elbow, McKinnon’s only a couple seconds behind, while their owners look furious and startled respectively.  Meadowes, who Regulus would have thought would be the first one to take an excuse to draw a wand on him, hasn’t; instead, Dorcas Meadowes is half out of her seat and wide-eyed like she’s ready to flee rather than fight.

 Regulus keeps his gaze on all of them, his heart pounding in his chest to a beat of: _what have you done? What have you done? What have you done?_ Because it’s either that or look down at the brand on his arm, a sight that he’s been avoiding ever since he first came to his decision to betray the Dark Lord. It won’t have changed, he knows (he thinks, he hopes). He knows exactly what it looks like, having traced it too many times not to – it might as well have been burned into his eyes as well.

  _What have you done?_

 The Dark Mark is colored a deep, bloody red. It looks like an open wound, really, like it’s being painted over and over again in his own blood from a thousand open cuts. It throbs with every beat of his heart sometimes, visibly, and it does now with that familiar, bearable, ever-reminding pain. It’s a hideous color and an ugly weight, each a perfect match for the gruesome design of the deathly snake slipping from the jaws of a skull. There’s no part of it that’s pretty, not a part of it that’s _nice_ – it’s all just awful and ugly, and Regulus can’t believe he used to bear this anchor with awe and pride.

  _What have you done? What have you done?_

 Sirius stares at it like the hideous brand it is, unhappy and without understanding. McKinnon stares with something that might be curiosity and might be shock. Meadowes stares at it like it’s as horrifying as a corpse itself. So… it can safely be assumed it looks as it always does.

 “One of us had to,” Regulus repeats, his voice alternately horribly between wavering and freezing. He needs to calm himself, but he _can’t_ and he can’t keep letting this not be said. “After you ran, it had… to… I’ll thank you n-not to _dare_ erase that.” 

 Is Harry going to be upset at him for this? Harry will understand, right? That was one of the reasons Regulus hadn’t run from his savior, besides the whole Life Debt thing: that Harry had seemed to understand that if there had once been pride at having the mark (there had been), it was shame now. Regulus wanted Harry back here now, to reassure him once again that it was the remorse that mattered – that it was today’s shame rather than yesterday’s pride – and things could be changed… that things could be fixed and made better… although not undone.

 They can’t be undone, Regulus knows that. He knows. That’s why he made the choices he did. That’s why he wrote the note and went to the cave, knowing what he was facing and hoping something good would come of it, before Harry came along and demanded satisfaction over sacrifice.

  _What have you done…?_

 Sirius still has his wand pointed at Regulus’ heart, but his expression has shifted from furious disgust to something… uncertain. It makes Regulus’ heartbeat even louder in his ears, because Sirius has never been one for uncertainty or hesitation. Sirius doesn’t look… Sirius looks confused, more than anything, like he’s waiting for a dawn inside his head.

 With slow uncertainty, Regulus rolls his sleeve back down and moves back from the edge of his seat. McKinnon is already lowering her wand and Meadowes cautiously settles back down on the sofa, the fight and flight of the moment leaving them.

 Sirius, however, still doesn’t move. Regulus wants to tell his elder brother to lower his wand unless he wants to duel – there’s some part of him, inside under the calm and the posture and the _manners,_ that very much wants to duel Sirius – but he doesn’t say a thing. His heartbeat is too loud, his tongue is too heavy, his hands feel numb, and there is a throbbing ache in his lower abdomen that’s beginning to gnaw at his insides – probably from the ongoing tension of everything. It hurts.

 “You were warning me,” Sirius says finally.

 Regulus’ gaze had fallen somewhere around the floor, but it snaps back up to look at his brother. Sirius has finally lowered his wand, and whatever was dawning on him is well into the sky now. Sirius is staring at him with wide-eyed thoughtfulness that makes Regulus’ inner fury pause, trembling.

  _What have you done?_

 “What in the world are you talking about?” Regulus demands.

  _What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?_

 “‘I think Father wants to speak with you immediately,’” Sirius repeats, stare even and stunned. “‘I believe he’s in the kitchen.’ …Only Father wasn’t in the kitchen was he, Reggie? He was in his study and he didn’t want to speak to me at all.”

  _Oh no._

 “I made a mistake,” Regulus snaps.

 “That’s not what you said before. You said you did it to steal my Arithmancy books.”

 “You wouldn’t have let me borrow them.”

 “Because you had your own copies!” Sirius snaps back. “It wasn’t ever about the books, you lying little creeper! It was because Mother was in the dining room with Aunt Cassiopeia that you sent me to go overhear because you knew!”

 “As usual, Sirius, you’ve put your _keen_ and penetrating mind to the task and come to the wrong conclusion,” Regulus says. He tries to drawl it, or give some mildness to the remark, but the aches make it come out all sharp edges and he has the horrifying sense that he’s not fooling anyone.

 Why, by Morgana, do they have to do any of this? Why does it even matter now? 

  “Now there’s an insult I haven’t heard in a while,” Sirius says, unimpressed. “When are you doing to pull your insults into the next century, Reggie?”

 “Insults develop with their target… or not.” Emphasis on the not.

 “Developing… or not. I think we’ve found the new family motto,” Sirius says drolly. “At least your insults have the family politics and opinions to keep them company back there. Come on, Reggie, you’re not fooling anyone. You warned me on purpose!”

 “I wanted your Arithmancy books,” Regulus says stubbornly, because he had. It’s not that much of a lie. All of Sirius’ textbooks came back home with the funniest and most fascinating things scrawled up and down the margins, Regulus liked to read them when he could bear it.

 “I thought you made a mistake.”

 “Yes, apparently it was coming here to talk to you.”

 Sirius looks furious again and Regulus prepares himself for the sharp remark that’ll surely follow, when McKinnon, whose existence he had… sort of forgotten about, raises her fingers to her lips and makes a loud whistling sound that sends the windows and teacups quivering for seconds afterwards during the sudden silence. Once the ringing stops, McKinnon raises her hands like they’re spooked hippogriffs again, her wand resting carelessly on the cushion beside her.

 “Again, there will be no pointless fighting in my house,” McKinnon says, pointing an accusing finger at both of them. “Also: there will be an explanation as to what the hell you’re both talking about. The only person who gets to speak vaguely about pivotal instances in this house is me.” The fingers turn to point at their owner, before flopping in the direction of the other witch on the sofa. “And Dory… if she ever feels like it.”

 Meadowes, sitting with her arms crossed again, doesn’t look blessed by this permission.

 “Baby Black,” McKinnon says, whirling her deep brown eyes and a thoughtful look on him. “Explain yourself. What did you do?”

  _What haven’t I done?_

 Regulus needs Harry back now. It was mistake to let these people separate him from his savior. It’s been no more than fifteen minutes and already he feels himself splitting at the seams, falling apart without the threads these three are pulling at. His gut aches, his head hurts, his arm is still throbbing like a second heart under his sleeve, and he’s trembling with old memories, recent shame, and anger that’s felt a breath away from pulling his wand for the past five minutes.

 While Regulus foremost has concern for _himself_ in these dire circumstances, he can at least spare a thought for Harry. His savior has been on the brink of falling apart in the face of his family. Will Lily Evans and James Potter be able to manage that? Will Harry be alright?

 If they both survive this, Regulus refuses to let them be separated again.

 “I didn’t do anything,” Regulus says icily, clamping a protective hand over his sleeve again. “But apparently everything was actually my fault all along. It’s my fault Sirius ran away. Who knew?”

 “You’re really going to keep lying about this?” Sirius says. “Is it just habit to you? You can’t help it?

 “Well, you see, lying is actually defined as when someone _isn’t_ telling the truth-”

 “Reggie, I know you’re a moron, but stop playing the fool.”

 “I can’t help it,” Regulus says, refusing to even look at his elder brother by this point. His hands are trembling no matter how stiffly he sits. “It’s habit.”

 Sirius raises a hand to his forehead and rubs at the side of his head. Regulus catches the motion out of the corner of his eye and has to look away again immediately. Of course because he’s currently refusing to look at his elder brother, lest he hex him, and not because Sirius was in that moment the spitting image of their late father – whose funeral Sirius didn’t even _go to,_ although probably because Mother would have killed him on sight.

 “I’m still waiting for _some_ sort of an explanation,” McKinnon says with annoying loudness. “If I’m not told, I’m just going to start guessing and nobody is gonna like that option, I promise.”

 Neither Regulus nor Sirius answer her. Regulus doesn’t answer because he’s of the firm opinion that McKinnon should mind her own business and doesn’t deserve answers on what’s private family business. He doesn’t know why Sirius doesn’t answer her. Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus can see that Sirius has also chosen to stare at a wall instead.  

 “Alright, so we’re going with the hard way, it seems,” McKinnon drawls. “Here’s what I think: something was going to happen that the baby Black knew about, so he indirectly squealed by setting the other Black up to overhear a conversation. Whatever was overheard may or mayn’t have inspired the infamous disappearing act. Am I right?”

 “…Yes,” Sirius says, clipped.

 “Now baby Black won’t admit to it, and honestly, he’s shit at lying about it, so I don’t really care. I’m curious as to what something the conversation warned about. If we’re going to get personal here, house rules forbid guests from being vague. What should have happened that didn’t? And why does it still matter now?”

 Again, neither of them answer. The lack of answer inspires Regulus to finally glance towards his brother again, where Sirius has a dark expression and his lips are firmly closed. McKinnon gives a heavy sigh, actually closing her eyes for a few seconds while she takes a moment.  

 “Sirius, you’re the one who brought it up,” she says finally. “I have an inkling of why you flew the coop early, so if you don’t want to really get into it, fine, but then you and him aren’t getting into it in my house. I don’t want that stuff here. I don't need it.”

 “Hold on, do they really not know _why_ you ran away?” Regulus says suddenly, unable to help himself at the revelation. _That’s_ the explanation that McKinnon’s waiting for? “Does anyone? Did the Potters know? Does Potter know?”

 Sirius actually looks at him again, eyes at first wide, then hard. “Shut up, Reggie.”

 Regulus sits back, at once understanding and disbelieving. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s just drop this entire conversation and call it a day, all agreed?” That would be really nice, actually. He doesn’t care if anyone else agrees, this conversation should be buried as fast and far as it can be.

 “James does know, actually,” Sirius says.

 It’s almost impossible to put a finger on why exactly, but Regulus doesn’t like the tone of his elder brother’s voice. He doesn’t like it or the thoughtful, angry look on Sirius’ face.

 “But today seems as good a day as any to let the boggart out of the wardrobe,” Sirius continues. “It’ll come out sooner or later with you around anyway.” Before Regulus can even think to formulate any sort of protest or reaction of any kind, Sirius has turned to McKinnon and says conversationally, “I was supposed to be Marked the summer after my fifth year, did you know? That’s when it’s done: at sixteen, the summer before you have a chance of turning seventeen.”

 Regulus makes a sound of frustration before he can even think to muffle it, because of course Sirius is going to be contrary. Sirius exists to be contrary, that's what he does. Regulus is too frustrated, furious, and achy to even enjoy the wide-eyed expressions of sheer, unadulterated shock on McKinnon and Meadowes’ faces.

 “You were _what?_ ” McKinnon demands.

 “Yeah, that was more or less my reaction when I overheard Mother and dear Auntie Cass talking about it in the parlor,” Sirius continues, with painfully false brightness. “Never mind that I’d have to be forced all the way, and would rather cut off my arm and slap You-Know-Who in the face with it – twice – than live like that.”

 The part of Regulus’ mind that is not screaming with frustration and trembling with fury makes a mental note: he absolutely cannot allow Harry to make use of the nickname “snake-face” around Sirius. It can’t happen. For the sake of Regulus’ dwindling sanity and overflowing stress, it just can’t.

 “So I stopped overestimating my ability to last the rest of the summer in that house, packed my bags, and ran for it later that night,” Sirius goes on. “What’s happening here is that I just realized this idiot wasn’t just being annoying and was actually warning me about my parents’ plans for bringing me back into the fold and the entire rest of my life. But you only wanted my Arithmancy books, eh, Reggie?”

 Regulus forces himself to meet his brother’s eyes.

  _What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?_

 There’s an expression on Sirius’ face that Regulus can’t stand. It’s _soft._ It’s soft from the faint smirk on Sirius’ lips to the look in his eyes, the grey of them turned warm, and it’s unbearable. The look is foreign on his elder brother’s face, at least to Regulus’ eyes, especially directed towards him. It’s understanding and thoughtful and perhaps, just maybe, a little bit fond. It’s an expression that Regulus has been wanting to see on Sirius’ face, whether he’s admitted it to himself or not, for a long time – and he can’t stand it now. 

 “Good read, Reggie?” Sirius asks, eyebrows raised.

  _What have you done…?_

 Regulus swallows against the frog in his throat – head aching, fingers trembling – and says, “I didn’t do it for the books.” It comes out harsher and hoarser than he means to, but maybe that’s all the better. “And I definitely didn’t do it for _you._ ”

 A crease appears between Sirius’ brows and maybe this is where Regulus should stop. If he were truly clever, if he weren’t the fool and moron and idiot that Sirius says, he would let Sirius believe that he did it because he cared. Just because he cared. That he was secretly good all along and warned Sirius out of the goodness of his heart. That he made some sort of sacrifice because he, despite being a hateful fourteen-year-old brat, quietly loved his estranged brother even though Sirius had dismissed him time and time again in favor of his new friends. If Regulus were more cunning and less angry, he’d probably let that lie stand.

 “I did it for _me,_ ” Regulus snaps. “I was _jealous._ You were already a bloodtraitor and you were still their first pick! You were getting what I wanted, so I got you out of my way.”

 Sirius’ faint confusion has turned into stunned disbelief, and Regulus wants nothing more than Harry back and at his side at the moment. The Potters to mediate and Harry, even half here and half wherever he’d come from, to share the understanding that there’d been pride in the past. It’s shame now, but he can’t pretend that there wasn’t pride. They both matter, Regulus knows, although he can’t put any words as to why they’re both important. He doesn’t have the words, or perhaps doesn’t have the space for all of them.

 There certainly isn’t enough space in McKinnon’s house for all the words Regulus doesn’t know how to say – the silence in the room now takes up too much space. Sirius apparently can’t stop starting at him, Regulus can’t meet his elder brother’s eyes anymore, and he can barely muster any energy to care about McKinnon and Meadowes’ mere existence on the opposite sofa.

 “…We definitely should have waited for the Potters to get back,” McKinnon says quietly.

 Meadowes somehow manages to make her perpetual frown even deeper. “This is like being surprised at getting pus when you poke a Bubotuber plant,” she says flatly. “You all should just stop.”

 Regulus can’t help but glare at her. “Who _are_ you?”

 Meadowes glares back and answers, “Mind your own business. It’s enough of a mess.”

 Like most things today, it stings because it’s true.

 

~

 

 Unfortunately for the fragile peace of the room and common sense, Regulus isn’t one to let some nobody put him in any sort of place. He opens his mouth to respond somehow – with what, he doesn’t know, which is probably an indication that he should just stop talking until the Potters get back – when he’s interrupted by a distant knock coming from the direction of the front door.

 They all pause.

 “Are we expecting more guests I didn’t know about?” Meadowes says.

 “…No,” McKinnon says slowly. “We’re not.”

 “They can’t possibly be back from Hogwarts already,” Sirius says, checking his watch with a deep frown. He still has his wand in hand, ready to be raised. “It’s not been long enough. They wouldn’t have even gotten past Hogsmeade.”

 “Something must have gone wrong,” Regulus says, getting to his feet and only barely managing to keep from tripping over a stack of knitting magazines.

 “You _sit._ ”

 There’s something powerful enough in McKinnon’s voice that Regulus has to stop and listen to their host, and almost sits back down. McKinnon’s eyes has gone distant again. She’s looking straight at Regulus, but at the same time, she clearly isn’t.

 “Even if you weren’t supposed to be dead, I wouldn’t let you answer my door,” McKinnon says.

 Then her eyes fade back in and immediately widen.

 “Who is it?” Meadowes demands.

 “Not the Potters,” McKinnon says, for the second time actually looking panicked. She whirls on Sirius and Regulus, and says, “You two need to hide _now._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it's back to the Potters. 
> 
> Recs for this update include:
> 
> [ **Repeated A Thousand Times In Golden Ink**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9484514) (HP) - HBP AU, One-shot, Fluff, Friendship. Luna Lovegood makes a friend through desk drawings. Colin and Ginny help. 
> 
> [**We Don't Know What Happened To Anybody Else**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9636572) (HP) - Post-DH AU, One-shot, Light Angst, Friendship. George Weasley meets Andromeda Tonks over the course of three funerals.


	17. Room of Hidden Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry looks around the Room of Requirement… the Room of Hidden Things… a place that had been nothing but fire and death last he’d seen it. All is silent now. Silent again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what? I have to admit defeat with this one. This chapter got so long that I have to cut it in half. This is part one and I expect to have part two, CH18: Where Everything is Hidden, up soon enough. I can't remember what exactly I promised for this chapter, but there ended up being no action here. We're getting long-winded character interactions, introspection, build-up to a breakdown, and feelings. 
> 
> I know that FDITH sometimes has the feeling of a perpetual interlude, but... I think that's occasionally what I'm going for, at least slightly. The joy of fanfic and writing for fun is that I'm not obligated to stick to a fast-paced plot; I think I'm enjoying exploring the characters and war and the whole "adventure" as something that's sort of awkward, not at all glorious, and really just a bunch of ordinary people stumbling through the mess of everyday life with... additional bits. Redemption and recovery aren't clean journeys, you know?

 The corridor is empty as they slide out from behind the statue of the One-Eyed Witch. Hogwarts is bright and whole and happily undisturbed, and Harry feels at once out of place and like he’s late for class. It’s a little unreal, looking up and down this corridor with the afternoon sun shining through the windows and glinting off the suits of armor. This is the Hogwarts from long before his time, and yet little besides a few paintings look changed from his sixth year, which feels like a forever ago now.

 “How long until classes let out?” Lily’s voice asks quietly.

 There’s a pause in which the blur of James Potter checks his watch, then he answers in a whisper. “About half-an-hour ‘til the end of fourth period. D’you think we’ll be completely done by then?”

 Harry can’t even really connect the Hogwarts he left behind with the one he’s seeing here. He half expects a teacher to poke their head out of a classroom to ask what he’s doing in the halls, despite the cloak he’s wearing. Any moment now, Ron and Hermione will come around the corner, bickering between them and having been looking everywhere for him.

 Any moment now.

 Any moment.

 “Harry?”

 He tears himself away from daydreams and memories to answer, “I dunno. This should be quick, so maybe? Depends if anything’s changed in the Room.”

 “Hm. Seventh floor, right? Opposite some barmy tapestry.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Which corridor again?”

 “Left one.”

 “Alright,” James whispers. “Let’s head there now. If we get separated, we meet there, alright?”

 “Yes,” Lily says, “but I’d rather stick together, so quick question: how are we going to not trip over each other the whole way? Because this sounds like how we all end up trying to explain ourselves in the Hospital Wing with a lot of broken bones between us. This was bad enough before, but now I can’t see Harry at all.”

 “I can sort of see the both of you, so I can walk at the back,” Harry volunteers. Like James did before when they were heading down to the Honeydukes cellar.

 “Alright, that’ll work,” Lily says. “Jim, where’s your hand?”

 James snorts. “Definitely not there. Here, love.”

 “Ah, that’s better.”

 “Yeah, c’mon. This way is fastest.”

 And with that, James Potter leads them all down the corridor before they attract any painted eyes with their whispering. Harry recognizes the route he’s taking and trails back a bit so he doesn’t trip over the pair of hazy blurs in the air ahead of him. He focuses on them, keeping an exact distant between him and them, and tries very hard not to think about anything else.

_(The castle was unnaturally silent.)_

Try being the important word there. 

_(There were no flashes of light now, no bangs or screams or shouts.)_

 He’s sick of this. He’s sick to his stomach with these memories, forcing their way into his head and twisting all of his thoughts. They intrude on every moment, even one so simple as walking down a corridor towards a staircase, like cracks splitting through the present.

 How is it possible to be this sick of living in your own head?

_(The flagstones of the deserted entrance hall were stained with blood.)_

 He can’t even have a moment to think for himself, before these thoughts come again and again and again. It wasn’t this bad before, in the few days immediately after he came here, before he rescued Regulus and came again to places like Hogsmeade, Privet Drive, Godric’s Hollow, and Hogwarts. These thoughts weren’t a problem before, but now… they’re getting worse and worse.

 At a faster rate, too.

  _(“Where is everyone?”)_

 Harry shakes Hermione’s whispering voice out of his head and sees that Lily and James are a little farther ahead of him than he’s trying to keep them. He speeds up accordingly. It hurts a little how grateful he is that they won’t be passing through or by the Great Hall. He doesn’t think he could bear to even cross the doorway – to look at empty spaces of floor, where there should bodies side by side, seemingly sleeping under the night sky.

 It hurts too much to think of even fleetingly.

  _(To escape into someone else’s head would be a blessed relief…_

_Nothing that even Snape had left him could be worse than his own thoughts.)_

 Was that true? Harry wonders, feeling very much like he’s fallen headlong into another world. The swirling memories, silver white and strange, haven’t left him since he dove into them. He doesn’t know if there is a worst thought. Every time he thinks nothing could be worse, another intrusive, somehow worse wondering comes along and leaves him reeling with grief and regret and shame.

 He shouldn’t have come to Hogwarts. He shouldn’t have sought out the Potters. At this rate, it won’t matter where he goes, because he won’t be able to bear the inside of his own head. This was a mistake. This was a terrible, terrible mistake.

 Sunlight from a window crosses the cloak and Harry takes a deep breath, dispelling the thoughts again.

 No, he had these thoughts and he’s done with them. He’s _done_ with them. He’s not having the reality-doubting, what-am-I-even-doing conversation with himself again because he’s just not. The point of doing this stuff now is making sure that all those terrible things he can’t forget _don’t happen._ If Regulus were here, Harry probably would’ve been elbowed in the side again by now.

 Not thinking is harder than it should be, unfortunately.

 The rest of the walk up the seventh floor is surprisingly boring. James knows exactly where he’s going, all of the students and teachers are in classes, and none of the paintings seem to notice them at all. There are a few twitchy moments where a door opens and closes far down a corridor, a staircase is particularly stubborn, or a suit of armor stretches and creaks particularly loudly, but that’s all.

 Harry nevertheless has to remind himself to breathe more than a few times and regrets giving up his wand to Sirius; he should’ve insisted on having it back when he pushed on getting this over with. All he has is the tiny pocket knife he picked up in his first few days, which hasn’t left his pocket since before he went to go rescue Regulus in the first place. His hand desperately wants to flex with emptiness. He feels vulnerable. Unsafe.

 It’s probably the cloak, held to him in a deathly grip to keep his hands still and the cloak in place, that’s stopping him from going mad. It’s the only thing between him and everything else.

 Before he really knows it – between trying to keep up, trying not to jump out of his own skin, and batting back a whole lot of horrible memories and inconvenient thoughts – they’re standing in front of a tapestry of trolls doing ballet. It’s just as odd and barmy as Harry remembers it, just… completely and utterly unchanged… normal… perfectly, dully everyday… which isn’t going to stop being strange.

 “Believe it or not, that’s not the weirdest piece of art I’ve seen in this place,” Lily says.

 “’S’not even close, really,” James answers agreeably. “I think I like it.”

 “It’s cute,” Lily says.

 Harry squints up at the tapestry and tries to reconcile trolls doing ballet as cute. He can’t, he just can’t, and he’s pretty sure he actually had a nightmare about that specific scenario once. Maybe it’s just because he’s not over having fought a mountain troll as a first year, but he really has no idea what Lily and James are talking about. That particular stink and near-death is hard to forget.

 “Well, alright then, Harry, where’s this room?” James says.

 “Right behind us,” Harry answers. “One moment and I’ll bring up the door.”

 He turns on his heel and strides over to where the door should be, then starts the necessary triple pass in front of the door, focusing on the room he requires of it again. _I need the room where everything is hidden._ Turn, walk. _I need the room where everything is hidden._ Turn, walk. _I need the room where everything is hidden._

 Harry doesn’t really know why, but he still breathes a sigh of relief when a familiar door melts out of the stonework in the exact same way it always does. Some paranoid part of him, it seemed, had been worried that it wouldn’t. Edges and details rise out of the wall, panels sink into it, and stone surfaces drip away to reveal the wood and metal of an enormous, sturdy door that with a bit of stretching settles onto the wall like it’s always been there.

 “Now that,” Lily says, awed, “is a serious secret door.”

 “Alright, I kind of feel like that’s a blow at me and my mates somehow, but honestly, I’m not even mad we didn’t manage to find it,” James says, sounding very impressed. “There was nothing there, how’d you even find that?”

 Beneath the cloak, Harry finds himself grinning a little. It _is_ pretty cool having a door form out of solid stone and room pull into existence where there wasn’t one before. The other secret passageways and such are pretty neat, but the Room of Requirement really is something else entirely.

 “I knew it was there already. We needed a secret club room and a friend told me about it,” Harry says, as the blurs of Lily and James step forward to assumedly inspect the door.

 “The same friend that needed a passage out of the castle?” James asks curiously.

 Harry can actually feel his smile lose its place on his face, and his heart do a quick drop to his stomach. “Ah, no,” he says quietly. “Different friend.”

 He can’t see the looks that Lily and James give him, but it’s plain in James’ voice as he says:

 “Oh.”

 Harry clears his throat and says, “Dobby. He was a h- a free elf.”

 “He sounds like a cool friend,” James says.

 “Yeah.”

 Harry doesn’t elaborate on that; he doesn’t know if he can at the moment. He’s just realized that he hasn’t the faintest idea how old Dobby was. What year was he born? How long do house elves live? Would Dobby be with the Malfoys now? Again? Something about the idea grates at Harry, a screeching feeling wrong like nails down a chalkboard again and again until they bleed – or worse, maybe, like _teeth_ down a chalkboard.

 If he can change the ways things go, here, he’s changing that too. If he can save Regulus, if he can try to save this Lily and James Potter who don’t know him, if he can save the young man who will never will be his godfather, if he can save and meet complete strangers like Marlene McKinnon and Dorcas Meadowes… he can free Dobby.

  _(“I want to do it properly.”)_

 That’s not something that should’ve been undone. It can’t be left to rest.  He’s going to free Dobby and help Kreacher get out of that terrible house somehow. Regulus would help, probably, since he seems to care about Kreacher.

 And something about this finally lets Harry breathe easier, lets him steady his thoughts some, to think about what he’s doing and why he’s doing this. He can do these things. He has a measure of control here that he hadn’t really noticed he’d lost, but was as vital to him as his lungs and heart. There are still things he doesn’t know, but yet ahead might be a bridge where there was only a river before. 

 “Yeah, he was pretty cool,” Harry says, and he can hear new strength in his voice that bolsters him. He can feel something fluttery in his chest again, tangled thoughts thrown aside for the funny memories of Dobby’s stack of tea cozies and purposefully mismatched socks.

 “He worked here,” Harry finds himself elaborating, even though he thought he couldn’t. “At Hogwarts. Demanded a salary and everything, though he had to argue Dumbledore down because the first offer was apparently too much money and too many days off. All the other house elves thought he was a bit nuts, but he didn’t care. He was proud to be free.”

 “…He sounds really brave,” Lily says.

 “Yeah, he was,” Harry says, assuaged by a determination he didn’t know he had in him. His “saving people thing”, he assumes; the struggle to fight for some reason seemed easier, somehow became undefinably more important with his heart on the line instead of his own life. 

 The conversation trails off, as Harry enjoys for a moment the feeling of existing without doubtful thoughts. He doesn’t even consciously think about this. He enjoys instead wondering how Winky’s doing. Hmm. Barty Crouch Junior and Mrs. Crouch would both be alive right now, and Barty is secretly a Death Eater, unbeknownst to Mr. Crouch, the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. At least, Harry thinks so? He should probably remember to mention this to Regulus or someone later.

“So, is there a special way in?” Lily says.

 Harry pulls himself out of thought and looks towards the shorter blur, standing closer to the door, with what may be a hazy hand pressed against the door. “What?”

 “Is there a password?” Lily continues, sounding maybe a little… enthused? “Or a riddle? ‘Speak friend and enter?’ How do you get in?”

 “Uh, you pull the handle and go in,” Harry answers.

 James laughs and Harry thinks he sees a hazy limb of the shorter figure smack into the taller one.

 “Shut it, Jim,” Lily says.

 “I didn’t say anything!” James says, poorly muffling laughter.

 “Hmph.”

 And with that inarguable statement, Lily must reach forward, because the door handle moves and clicks under a hazy shape. The thick door to the Room of Requirement swings cautiously and silently open for them. Inwards this time, although Harry has seen it swing both ways before because magical doors don’t really care to be predictable or limited.

 Lily goes in first, James follows, and Harry, after a deep breath and a steeling of nerves, brings up the rear. He shuts the door behind them, then nearly bumps into Lily and James, who’ve stopped only a few steps into the room for some reason.

 “I’ve made a mistake,” Lily announces firmly.

 “Yeah?” James says.

 “I made a joke about the wrong mountain,” she says. “This is that other lost kingdom behind a secret door, because this sort of hoard is _dragonous._ ”

 “That’s not a word,” James says, sounding bemused.

 “It should be.”

 “And it’d be a bit counter-productive for dragons to hoard loads and loads of broken _wooden_ furniture, don’t you think?” 

 “Everything is flammable if the fire’s hot enough,” Lily says dismissively. “I’m pretty sure there’s a dragon in here.”

 “…There might be,” Harry says in response to that second sentence, trying very hard not to think about the first.

 He pulls off the Invisibility Cloak, focusing on the cool slide of shimmering fabric, rather than the massive heat and roar of cursed flame that was devouring this very room when he saw it last. Only days ago, for him. The fact that the room’s cool and not moving, especially not with an inferno made of a dozen monsters, helps separate the rooms. This Room of Hidden Things is still and silent, save for a bit of creaking. It’s not full of wild things made of fire and bloodthirst, a heat solid like air turned burning walls, and black smoke so thick that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

He can see his hand now, feel the silvery cloak between his fingers, and breathe freely. The room’s too open, his hands empty of a shield to wield against the world, but he can breathe.

 Yeah, actually, _dragonous_ should be a word. Harry can say that having faced both dragons and Fiendfyre. It sounds appropriately massive and deadly. Fully grown dragons can only and best be described as _dragonous,_ an adjective probably defined as ‘like dragons’’ because dragons are creatures really unto themselves. Fiendfyre is the something else altogether, really, but dragonous is a good start on the nightmarish, all-consuming cursed fire.

  _(And then Harry heard a thin, piteous human scream from amidst the terrible commotion, the thunder of devouring flame.)_

 He’s not thinking about it. Nope.

 “…Really?” Lily says, as she melts out of the air, her wand lowering from dispelling her Charm. James melts out of the air just behind her, looking concerned.

 “There’s a stuffed mountain troll in here,” Harry says, looking around at the piles and piles of stuff. He can’t spot it now, but it’s probably here and it wasn’t a pleasure to run into. “Turns out mountain trolls smell terrible dead or alive. I’ve never seen a dragon, but anything’s possible, I suppose.”

 Lily looks both pleased and nervous. James still looks concerned.

 “Is anything in here dangerous?” James asks.

 Harry looks around the Room of Requirement… the Room of Hidden Things… a place that had been nothing but fire and death last he’d seen it. All is silent now. Silent again. Undestroyed. The ceiling reaches taller than the Great Hall, easily comparable to being inside a mountain, and they’re surrounded by towering walls of abandoned objects not unlike a lost city or natural landscape.

  _(Below them the cursed fire was consuming the contraband of generations of hunted students…)_

 Desks, chairs, and other furniture are stacked like towers. There are bottles, hats, crates, chairs, books, weapons, broomsticks, bats… alongside marble busts, suits of armor, globes, strange mechanical devices, instruments. Every piece of furniture and random object that Harry had every laid eyes on, it seemed, and mores besides, all hidden in a room so massive that if he shouted for an echo he thinks his voice might get lost in the labyrinth. The three of them are very small among these mountains in a mountain.

  _(…the guilty outcomes of a thousand banned experiments…)_

 He never went that deep into this room of secrets, really. He avoided this place to avoid the temptation of his old potions book and his search for the Horcrux had been very direct, so he doesn’t… really know the depth of what’s in here, actually.

  _(…the secrets of the countless souls who had sought refuge in the room.)_

 “About as dangerous as the rest of Hogwarts, I think,” Harry says finally, looking at the Room of Hidden Things with fresh eyes and new consideration. It’s huge and deep and he never really had time to appreciate it before, he thinks. “It’s a room of abandoned magical objects, so… yeah.”

 Not as dangerous as Fiendfyre, but as dangerous as to be expected.

  _(Flaming serpents, chimaeras, and dragons rose and fell and rose again, and the detritus of centuries on which they were feeding was thrown up into the air-)_

 “Be careful what you touch?” Lily suggests. “Jim isn’t great at that.”

 James scoffs, but playfully. “Cauldron? Kettle,” he says, his concern finally melting away as well. “Alright, maybe it was a good thing we never found this place.” His voice turns fond for the adjacent sentence. “We never would’ve gotten Sirius out of here.”

 “Hey, kettle? Cauldron,” Lily says.

 James laughs, loud and delighted, and says, “This is gonna go ‘round in circles if we keep this up. Harry, where can we find what we’re looking for?”

 Harry, who’d been watching the couple who could’ve been his parents with an intensity he hadn’t noticed, snaps out of it and looks back to the towering walls of objects for the right path. Unfortunately, now that he’s looking… he can’t see anything familiar.

 Well, he can see certain vaguely familiar objects, but as a whole…

 “I don’t know,” Harry says. “I think I know where it could be, but I think the room’s rearranged itself since I was in here. Before, it was sitting beside a stone warlock and a dusty old wig, all by a cupboard just off that way.”

 “Harry, you’re not making much tense.”

 Harry frowns a little and looks towards James, where the other young man is grinning unrepentantly at him. Lily is trying to muffle a similar smile, but not very hard. Their expressions confuse Harry for a moment, but then he realizes his mistake and the joke.

 “It _will be_ sitting there,” Harry corrects, smiling back and shrugging. “Look, it’s been nearly twenty years and the future’s sort of past for me right now. For all I know, Volde- Tom originally put his tiara on the stuffed troll and it’s still there.”

 James laughs again and Lily makes her amused noise.

 “Is that troll doing ballet too?” Lily asks, which makes James laugh so hard that he doubles over.

 “I sort’ve need my eyes, so I hope not,” Harry answers. “Not last I saw.”

 “Then there’s hope yet!” James says, forcing down his laughter, bottling it with a massive grin. “Why don’t we look for where the diadem was before?” he suggests. “And if it’s not there, we can look from there. The objects probably don’t shuffle around so much that it won’t have stuck close to something recognizable. Anything specifically entrusted with something tends to hold onto it.”

 Harry thinks about this for a moment, having heard something very similar more than once throughout his classes. The theory was more seriously addressed in Charms and Divination and such, but most frequently and confidently explained by Professor Sprout, who would at least once a year tell all her students at length that there is an enormous difference between just putting a spade on a bench to get it out of the way and putting a spade on a bench to really _put_ it there. Trelawney’s lectures on object memories and sentience aren’t quite so memorable as Sprout’s anecdotes on the importance of knowing where you’d left your good stabbing knife, which could apparently be the difference between keeping and losing an eye to a particularly nasty plant.

 On that note, Harry wonders if Professor Sprout is teaching at Hogwarts yet. She appeared not too much older than McGonagall, much bubblier and young-at-heart if a little more grey and wrinkled, so… Merlin, she and McGonagall will still be in their forties, then. That’s very strange.

 “Harry?” James asks.

 Harry shakes himself out of those thoughts. “Sorry,” he says. Lily and James are both wearing vaguely concerned expressions, so Harry shares his thought and elaborates: “I just realized that McGonagall’s twenty years younger. It’s a bit of a shocker to realize she wasn’t born already nearly sixty.”

 Lily smiles back at him, but it’s James who grins like he’s yet to be told leprechaun gold doesn’t last the night.

 “McGonagall’s still at Hogwarts by the time you got there?” James asks.

 “McGonagall was still at Hogwarts by the time I left,” Harry answers, letting his smile widen into something a little more genuine. The state that Hogwarts was in when he left doesn’t bear thinking about, of course, but it’s nice to imagine that McGonagall would stay at Hogwarts for decades and decades to come and wouldn’t step aside for the sky daring to fall.

 It’s nice to imagine that someone out there’s infallible, even knowing that’s not true.

 Last Harry Potter saw Minerva McGonagall, she was sprinting down a hallway, shepherding a thundering herd of galloping desks towards the Death Eaters. Her hair had come down and there was a gash on her cheek, and she hadn’t a side-eye or scrap of notice for the three of them as she turned the corner while leading a great charge into the fray. They heard her scream, “CHARGE!”

  _(“Harry, you get the cloak on. Never mind us-”_

_But he threw it over all three of them; large though they were, he doubted anyone would see their disembodied feet through the dust that clogged the air… the falling stone… the shimmer of spells.)_

  “Was she still doing the Animagus transformation trick on the first day?” James interrupts, still grinning.

 Harry blinks back at him. “Yeah, she was.”

 “I loved that,” James says, sighing almost wistfully. He stretches his arms over his head, scratching his neck and ruffling his hair, lost in a good sort of memory. “ _No_ idea how she managed to leap off the desk, striding forward like that, without tripping over her robes. So cool. I’ve fallen on my arse while _standing still,_ never mind jumping. Pads doesn’t either, the git, just me and-”

 “It’s the antlers,” Lily interrupts, smiling indulgently at him. She raises her own hands, fingers flared, and briefly flashes mock antlers sprouting from her face. “I keep telling you, it’s probably the loss of the antlers.”

 “You said that and the next time, I punched a hole in the wall.”

 “You overcompensated, dear” Lily says. Then she leans forward and says in what’s got the look of a _leer,_ “As usual.”

 James makes a pained sound and, once again, theatrically mimes taking a blow to the heart.

 Harry watches them with a smile on his face and a warm feeling stirring in his chest – something quietly heart-mending. Their antics, their banter, even clearly slightly guarded while they make an effort to treat him kindly, are familiar. It’s the answer to a question Harry didn’t know he was asking: did Lily and James Potter love each other? In the everyday way of genuine friendship?

  _(“How come she married him? She hated him.”_

_“Nah, she didn’t.)_

 They did. They _do._ He can see it now, like he’s seen it so many times before. Different, of course, but the same meeting of two people who know each other and still want to know more. Like Bill and Fleur, and the touches and murmurs and mischievous giggling that filled Shell Cottage. Like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and a thoughtless peck on the cheek and twinkle in the eye and conversations in small glances. Like Harry and Ginny almost were, all teasing and happiness before… well… yeah.

 In the midst of pushing aside thoughts of friends and love, which are good thoughts, mostly…

  _(“OI! There’s a war going on here!”)_

 …looking at Lily Potter, following his train of thought on jokes, something occurs to Harry.

 “Hang on,” he says. “Is that a pun?”

 Lily and James both look at him, surprised. Harry looks back at them, but specifically at Lily.

 “What?” Lily says, at the same time that James replies: “I mean, probably.”

 “ _‘Dear’,_ ” Harry repeats. “‘You overcompensated, _dear._ ’” Then, because he’s pretty much been raised an honorary Weasley and, if breakfast at the Burrow has taught him anything…

He just says it outright, accusingly. “That’s a pun.”

 James’ grin makes an immediate reappearance, like someone _really_ ought to tell him that leprechaun gold doesn’t last the night. Lily, after a glance at her husband, smiles too. Her expression answers the questions immediately: making a poor effort at sheepish, falling leagues short of repentant.

 “I prefer to call it a term of en _dear_ ment,” Lily says.

 Harry snorts before he can help it, because that’s terrible. It’s terrible in such a familiar, en _dear_ ing way that his stifled laughter still manages to bubble up into a massive grin.

 “But we’re going to be stuck here all day if we get going on that track,” Lily continues. “So let’s get going before we get terribly lost down the wrong labyrinth.”

 “You’re no pun,” James accuses cheerily.

 Lily swats him without even looking at him, but she’s still smiling. “Lead the way, Harry.”

 “Right,” Harry says, looking towards the maze proper of the Room of Hidden Things. It takes him a moment to remember which path through the heaps was taken before. It was only days ago; he remembers most of it. “…This way, I think.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [**The Cat Came Back**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10870578) (HP) - _On November 1st, 1981, Minerva McGonagall shows up on her brother's doorstep with a bundle in tow. (Or... Minerva steals a baby and Malcolm isn't impressed.)_


	18. Where Everything is Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A landscape of lost things surrounds them, twisted and pulled by time into unlikely towers and canyons. So much of it looks like a touch would send them teetering, like a breath would send the whole mountain crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never had to cut a chapter into thirds before and it had BETTER not happen again. 
> 
> The cliffhanger with Regulus' side of things has still not been resolved.

 The last time Harry was here, only days ago in a different time, he was doing the exact same thing he’s doing now. He couldn’t remember where to go next then either and now doesn’t even have the marker of the diadem on top of the wig-wearing statue and cupboard, stuck together with the intention of marking where he’d hidden Snape’s old textbook. His memory might not be any help at all, given how the aisles of junk have apparently shifted like sand dunes over nearly two decades.

 “Could we summon it?” James asks, less than a dozen steps into the maze.

 “No, tried that last time and it didn’t work,” Harry answers, waving a hand over the aisles of junk as he peers around for any sign of the discoloured diadem. “It’s inconvenient like Gringotts; same enchantments, probably; it doesn’t yield whatever it’s hiding that easy to thieves. I’ve tried. Keep your eyes out for anything that looks like a tarnished tiara.”

 “...That’s… inconvenient,” James says.

 Harry notices the pause before the reply and turns his head a little to look at James, squinting back at him with a considering look. Not anything malicious or anything, just intensely curious.

 “What?”

 James shakes his head a little, then says, “You sort of implied there that you’ve tried to rob Gringotts.”

 “Oh,” Harry says. “Uh, yeah. Yes.”

 James’ eyebrows raise a little higher and Lily makes her amused sound.

 “How’d that go?” Lily asks.

 It takes Harry a moment to come up with a suitably underwhelming statement about how things went with that fiery trip that was _also_ just a few days ago. “It… could’ve gone better.” Should he or should he not mention the Polyjuice and the Gemini Curse and the breaking out through the ceiling while riding a dragon? “I mean, we did it in the end. It’s not as though we don’t try and plan, it’s just that we get there and all hell breaks loose anyway.”

 “Probably not in your league of things by the sound of it, but yeah, that sounds familiar,” James says, grinning, glancing repeatedly back at Harry as he skims their surroundings. “I think that’s a story I want to hear when you’re up for it. Congratulations on being the first person to successfully rob Gringotts!”

 Harry ends up grinning back, because that’s a funny way to see an event that he mostly remembers as several hours of nonstop anxiety and terror. He likes that contextualization of nearly drowning in gold and being burnt alive a lot better than the fear of it. “Second, actually, but thanks.”

 “Second?”

 “Someone got there first before he did, Jim. Although… it seems a bit odd to me,” Lily comments, as she too peers around at the aisles of junk, “that there would’ve only been two successful robberies of Gringotts. I mean, surely there’s been more than just two over _hundreds_ of years.”

 Harry thinks about this slightly out of nowhere proposition, because it’s infinitely better than imagining the objects surrounding them crashing down, multiplying infinitely, and burning their skin until they drown. He really didn’t need the reminder of the Lestranges’ vault, actually. Why does he keep bringing bad memories back into his head to ruin the moment? What’s wrong with him?

 “It’s a bit odd that both of them happened within the same ten year period,” Harry agrees.

 “I think it’s more likely there’s been a lot more and it’s been hushed up or forgotten,” Lily says with a firm nod. Then she purses her lips and adds apologetically, “No offense to your thieving skills, Harry.”

 “That’s alright, I wasn’t all that great at it anyway. Plus we had inside help.”

 “This story is sounding better and better with every offhand detail,” James says, sounding delighted at both the prospect of hearing Harry’s story and at the idea that there’s a hidden history of magical bank robbers unbeknownst to the rest of the world. “Maybe there’s a whole bunch of thieves who just _never got caught_ too. No one’s noticed or looked yet… or they made a fake version and replaced the real one with it. That’d be the coolest way, actually”

 Harry turns his head around immediately on the pretence of searching for the diadem and stifles a sudden cough. Then on the related subject of coughing and forgery, makes another mental note to get Regulus to cough up the locket and stop holding it in reserve sooner rather than later.

 Here is where he notices that they’ve gone a bit farther than he meant to take them. Harry stops and has a proper look around, peering at the aisles of junk for a familiar landmark or even the faintest sense that they’re on the right track. Behind him, James and Lily stop too.

 “D’you see it?” James asks.

 “…No.”

 Harry looks around them for a sign that the diadem is near. Any sign at all would do, but the mounds of objects give away nothing; he recognizes none of them. Anything that comes to mind, he can’t differentiate from a direction his mind has invented on its own. He can hear his own voice whispering a mantra, but it’s dissonant against the shifted towers of junk. Out of place and uneven.  

  _(“Somewhere near here. Somewhere… somewhere…”)_

 Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth they’ve gone here, James and Lily following Harry who’s been desperately searching for objects he recognized from his two scant trips in another time. Harry’s been following his own past footsteps, trying to recreate the moment in which he finally found the diadem… and failing. 

  _(His breath was loud in his ears…)_

 Though his breathing is loud to his own ears, the presence of James and Lily is impossible to ignore entirely. Though he feels ill with anxiety from his current situation and the hell he left behind, what he feels now is pale in comparison to the heavy desperation of the Battle of Hogwarts.

_(…and then…)_

 There are no shouts and spells and spilled blood outside; there’s no Tonks running into the firefight with desperate fear transforming her face like nothing else; there’s no looming threat of Voldemort just outside the door, lurking with constant fury at the back of his mind.

 That moment is inimitable.

 Unfortunately.

 Thank Merlin.

_(…his very soul seemed to shiver._

_There it was…)_

 But there it isn’t. Right ahead isn’t a blistered old cupboard, but an upside-down bookshelf stacked with knitting magazines and a scuffed-up Keeper’s helmet. There’s no pockmarked stone warlock wearing a dusty old wig and no ancient discoloured tiara perched clearly on top. Just one blue galosh with a silvery flute growing out of it like a flower.

 And there’s no shiver in Harry’s soul. He realizes, suddenly, that he’s been waiting for a skip in his heartbeat… a strangled pause in his lungs… some sort of icy tug from deep inside his chest and a silent, leading whisper brushing at the back of his mind like the beginnings of a headache. There should be a great and terrible resonance, imperceptible nearly even to him; the evidence that he’d been ignoring for years, casting aside even more strongly for months, and that he’d finally been forced to recognize stumbling out of the Pensieve. He should _know_ where to look, where to reach, deep down in that same place that had always known the incontrovertible truth that the Prince’s tale shared.

  _(“Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth. Sometimes I have though he suspects it himself.”)_

 Albus Dumbledore’s voice echoes in his mind, a touch sad, but direct. As though there was never anything to be done. Tired and admonishing. As though, wishes and love aside, there was never going to be any other ending.

  _(“Don’t be shocked, Severus.”)_

 “-arry. _Harry._ ”

 Harry comes back to himself and James Potter is standing in front of him now, staring at him with open concern. Lily is hovering just behind him, looking equally upset and uncertain. As Harry looks between them, James leans back a little.

 “Harry?”

 “Yeah, um, sorry,” Harry says.

 “Your ghost just left the host for nearly a minute,” James says, concerned.

 “Got lost in thought,” Harry replies on reflex.

 James doesn’t look at all reassured by that and Lily’s lips are pursed. Harry is now much more certain that Ron and Hermione were humouring him every single time he said this and they didn’t pursue over the past couple months. That didn’t sound convincing in the slightest.

 “…Pretty far lost in thought,” Lily says.

  _To the very bottom of the Pensieve,_ Harry almost replies. He barely manages to catch the quip, certain that he doesn’t want to mention the memories yet. He’s revealed so much, but not that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

 “Sorry, it’s just…” _Think of something distracting. Anything._ “I can’t see anything that I recognize. I know the diadem has to be here, but everything’s been rearranged. I don’t know where it is.”

 It feels a relief to say it, though he feels surrounded by mountains of his own thoughts and worries, all of which tower taller than the abandoned objects surrounding them. He can’t keep avoiding these thoughts forever, but he doesn’t know where to find the answers. How does he find the diadem without the cold tug on his heart and soundless whisper in his mind? And… well…

 “Al…right,” James says, still not looking convinced. He looks like he wants to say something, but like he doesn’t quite know what to say, so they’ll all be forced to stand here forever trying to put words to the questions in them.

 “I guess we’ll have to find it the old-fashioned way,” Lily interrupts.

 Harry and James look at her. Then, after a beat, James groans dramatically. “We’re gonna have to send a note telling the kids we won’t be back in time for dinner. Sorry, busy treasure-hunting.”

 “We’ll make it if we try,” Lily says determinedly. “They’ll manage.” She looks at Harry and her expression is friendly enough; she smiles encouragingly and her eyes are so very green. “Are we sure we can’t summon it?”

 “Tried before and it didn’t work,” Harry answers, his heart settling slightly under her look.

 James rubs at the back of his neck again and offers knowingly, “Mum always said summoning is how nice things get broken.”

 “It took Fiendfyre to break it last time,” Harry offers in return.

 Since he’d rather not get into it and it’s probably better for everyone’s peace of mind not to know, Harry’s determined not to talk about the Room of Hidden Things going up in cursed flames. It’s all he can do not to jump at imaginary sparks in the corner of his eye and brushes of warmth prickling at the back of his neck. He echoes James’ action and rubs the back of his neck too.

 “Let’s… not do that,” Lily suggests. “Either of those things.”

 “I don’t even know how to make Fiendfyre,” James says agreeably.

 “Personally speaking, the more important one is knowing how to put it out,” Harry comments before he can stop himself. He shrugs when James and Lily give him another strange, though agreeable, look. “I don’t know how to do either.”

 “Alright,” Lily says, taking a deep breath. “How about this? We’ll split up and look for the diadem the old-fashioned way. Jim can go that way. Harry, you and I can go this way together. If anyone finds the diadem, they put some sort of marker on it and give a shout for everyone else. Nobody, at any point, will light _anything_ on fire without everyone first agreeing on it.”

 “Room for change in a changing room,” James says with a nod. “I like it. You sure you don’t wanna take that path, love? I can take that one.”

 “No. Dibs on this one, dear.”

 “Fair enough. Sounds good to me. Harry, you alright with this?”

 “Yeah.”

 James nods and leans quickly down to kiss Lily on the edge of her mouth, a quick and well-practiced peck. Then he gives Harry a grin and a nod, and saunters off back the way they came to look for the diadem on his own, too quickly for Harry to even think to offer back the cloak over his arm. Harry watches him go with a funny feeling, unable to entirely forget the fact that the last time that James Potter left Lily and Harry Potter alone, he didn’t come back.

 What helps here is the skip in James’ calm saunter – the grin he gives over his shoulder as he goes. He’s out of sight soon enough, turning around a bend of bathtubs and lamps with a wave, and Harry can look back towards Lily without feeling like this is the end.

 “Come on, Harry,” Lily says, nodding towards the other direction.

 Harry obediently falls into step beside her, though he can’t help but feel a little confused. “Aren’t we going to split up too?” he asks warily.

 “Well, we could. But you don’t have a wand still and I wanted to keep talking.”

 “Oh. Uhm, what about?”

 “Anything goes,” Lily answers. “How about… hmm…”

 Harry scans the objects around them, low and high, trying not to panic too much at Lily’s attention and consideration. He’d _love_ to keep talking with his mum – well, with the girl who _could_ have been his mum. But there’s so much he hasn’t shared. What if she asks? What if she hates him for it?

 What if she just doesn’t like who he is in the end?

 “You keep saying ‘we’ when you’re talking about the things you’ve done,” Lily says finally, her voice friendly and curious. “Is that royal?”

 “No,” Harry answers. “My friends were there for most of it.”

 “What are they like?”

 “They…”

  _(“Don’t listen to him.”_

_“It’ll be all right. Let’s – let’s get back to the castle, if he’s gone to the forest we’ll need to think of a new plan-”)_

 Harry swallows, his throat raw, and looks out towards the carefully balanced desks and chairs, cabinets and dressers, tables and hat stands and bed frames and countless knick-knacks stacked in loud defiance of gravity. A landscape of lost things surrounds them, twisted and pulled by time into unlikely towers and canyons. So much of it looks like a touch would send them teetering, like a breath would send the whole mountain crashing down.

 “They’re the best people in the world,” Harry says honestly.

  _(“You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself…”)_

 “The best friends always are,” Lily interrupts, not seeming to have noticed the dangerous looming of the hidden things around them. “If you don’t want to talk about them right now, that’s alright. I’m sorry, it was insensitive of me to ask. If you do want to talk about them, I’d like to hear about the best people in the world. They sound rather nice.”

 Harry manages to smile at Lily’s near-teasing tone. “Thanks.”

 “You’ve met most of my friends already,” Lily continues. “Well, Dorcas is more of a friend-of-a-friend. She’s really nice once you get to know her. So’s Marlene. They’re a bit strange at first, but they grow on you, like Dorcas’ plants. Not like Jim’s friends. They’re more like leeches. Good leeches, though; I don’t like leeches, but I like them, so maybe not like leeches.”

 Harry laughs. “Maybe not.”

 “Did you know Jim accidentally got a bunch of leeches attached to my face once?”

 “Oh, Merlin, no. Ouch.”

 “Ouch, indeed. He laughed first, then he was so sorry I thought he was going to stick leeches to his own face to make it up to me. I almost let him, I was so mad, but Professor McGonagall intervened before I could make up my mind about it.”

  _(“You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face-”)_

 “Ron once accidentally dropped a bar of Unslippable Soap into my bedside glass of water and forgot to tell me or dump the water,” Harry volunteers. “I hiccupped bubbles for a week. He laughed at me more than he was sorry.”

 Lily laughs at him too, in a half-silent way, then waves a hand in apology when Harry raises his eyebrows at her because she’s laughing just hard enough that talking is too much effort to manage.

 “Bubbles out of my mouth every time I talked,” Harry assures her. “They tickled.”

 This only gives Lily’s amused sound a wheezing quality.

 “Oh, I’m sorry, but that’s… terribly funny,” Lily says, quashing her laughter. “Something like that happened to Mary once. Madame Pomfrey just told her to wait it out and not to put Bubbling Tea in a Pepper-Up Potion ever again; she had the hiccups for a whole day – whole twenty-four hours, she couldn’t sleep, she was so jittery – and she jumped three feet in the air every time. Poor girl.”

 Harry sympathizes, but also… “Is that why Madame Pomfrey hands out pamphlets warning people not to take Pepper-Up Potions on their own? Bubbling Tea was top of the list of things not to mix them with. After Firewhiskey, of course.”

 “Of course,” Lily says, amused. “I don’t know. Maybe? That’s a funny thought.”

 It is a funny thought, the possibility that something one of Lily’s friends did inspired Madame Pomfrey to hand out pamphlets warning Harry and all his friends of the dangers of that thing. If only students actually took this poor Mary’s experience to heart when exams came around.

 “It is,” Harry agrees, turning to look over the stacks of objects again.

  _(“You have permitted your friends to die for you-”)_

 “So! You didn’t know Marlene and Dorcas when you met them, but you knew Sirius,” Lily says thoughtfully. “I’m curious which of our friends you know and which of them you don’t. You must know Remus, I’m sure.”

  _(“You have permitted your friends to die-”)_

  “Yeah,” Harry says hoarsely. “Um, yes.”

 “Remus is a wonderful person to know, so that’s good! I couldn’t remember if you’d said that you had or not, but I’m glad. Hmm, if you didn’t know Marlene then you probably don’t know Caradoc.”

 “’Fraid not,” Harry says, trying to remember if that’s one of the dead people from the photograph of the first Order of the Phoenix. He thinks so. One of the smiling blokes behind Marlene and Dorcas that Harry never had a hope of knowing, maybe?

 “Well, he’s… memorable, I’ll give him that, so you’ll know him when you meet him. Speaking of, how about Benjy?”

 “Sorry.”

 “Emmeline?”

 “In passing,” Harry says. “Never really had a conversation.”

 She was part of his Advance Guard, which was when he met her, but she was murdered by Death Eaters less than a year later. He liked her from what he knew of her. She had looked grim at first but soon proved to have a good sense of humour, always smiling at Tonks or laughing at people’s jokes.

  _(“You have permitted your friends-”)_  

 “That’s a shame, she’s lovely.”

 “Yeah, she seemed nice. Always laughing.”

 “That’s her. How about Pandora?”

 Harry’s brow furrows, as he doesn’t recognize that name at all. Even the greatest attempts to dig up a memory return nothing, not even a mention in passing. Maybe a family member of an Order member? Someone affiliated with the Order but not a member? Like Ted and Andromeda Tonks?

  _(“You have permitted-”)_

 Harry shakes his head free of echoes. “Sorry, don’t know her.”

 “That’s alright,” Lily says, like she can’t hear a voice ringing in her head.

 Like she never heard it in the first place.

 “Hmm. Do you know Hagrid?”

 Here, Harry can grin. “Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts!” he recites. “Always wanted a dragon for a pet. Kept a bunch of other monsters in the meantime. Yes, he’s…” Oh.

 Oh no.

  _(“HARRY! NO!”)_  

 “A good friend,” Harry finishes lamely.

  _(“NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT’RE YEH-?”)_

 “Brought me my Hogwarts letter,” Harry says, as though happier memories will make the painful ones less somehow. It doesn’t seem to work like that, unfortunately; it might even make it worse. 

  _(“You have permitted-”)_

 “Really? That was nice of him.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Hmm, who’s left that you might know? You obviously know Professor McGonagall.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Oh, how about Fabian and Gideon?”

 “Uh, no.”

 “No? Fabian and Gideon Prewett? They’re hard to miss.”

 “Sorry, no,” Harry repeats, shaking his head. The skin of his wrist itches for a present that hadn’t left him for nearly a year, an old thing more precious than any new gift could have been; the smoothness of the cloak over his arm is suddenly abrasive and distracting. “I know _of_ them, but…”

  _They’re dead,_ Harry doesn’t say. _I’m pretty sure most of the people you’re naming are dead._

 “I suppose you might not run in the same circles... given the age difference. Merlin knows Molly is up to the tip of her hat with their influence on her sons as it is,” Lily muses.

 “I know Molly,” Harry volunteers, as though that’ll somehow stop the woman who could’ve been his mother from immediately figuring out Harry doesn’t know all these people because they were viciously murdered twenty years ago. “And Arthur. I know the Weasleys.”

 How well, he doesn’t know if he can yet say. It takes everything in him not to rub at the skin of his wrist. He doesn’t. He won’t.

  _(“You have permitted-”)_

 Lily hums consideringly, then smiles. “They’d be your age, wouldn’t they? Molly and Arthur’s boys? You would’ve all gone to Hogwarts together. That’s nice.”

 “It was nice,” Harry agrees.

  _(“You-”)_

 Possibly because it’s either that or give in to the hitch rising in his lungs.

  _(“You-”)_

 Harry looks away from the woman who could have been his mother, turns away from the itch of his wrist and the prickle in his eyes. He swallows his heart like he has to hold it close and looks about at the towering objects around them like he might be able to find a place to hide it. Here in this room that has swallowed secrets for centuries, that burned so easily, it might be safe.

 Speaking with Lily Potter has been lovelier than Harry ever could have dreamed. Dreams of conversations had been little more than them listening and laughing, or perhaps sharing painless and vague stories of their youth. Only able to eavesdrop through the memories of others, it was like listening to a half-remembered voice, full of love and a life that never was. The reality is harsher – full of awkwardness, tempered by hunger and exhaustion, overshadowed by threats – and for that it has been lovelier than Harry thinks he can bear.

 Lily Potter is a person, full of love and laughter, but not only that, full of suspicion and nosiness as well. Lily Potter is alive, really alive, and every time he lets himself realize it again sends joy and grief thundering in equal measure through his veins. For the loveliness of it, the awkward reality of it, is now serving to remind him of the bittersweetness… of the persons left behind. It’s too real to be borne; and the true weight of the situation comes down: the price of knowing Lily Evans has come at a great and terrible cost.

  _(“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you._

_“You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself.”)_

 It is with a heavy heart that Harry lets himself think what he has known all along, but not let himself admit, ever since he realized he had the opportunity to really meet the strangers who could have been his parents… _It wasn’t worth it._

 He gave himself up to save his friends. _That_ was worth everything, much less his life. But this? He didn’t ask for this apparent second chance at life, if that is what this harsh, too-real-to-be-a-dream situation is. If he hadn’t died to save his friends, if he had chosen to be here, if he had been _able_ to live, the remorse would kill him yet again. It wouldn’t be worth it, and the guilt of that thought, in the face of Lily Potter peering curiously at him, may kill him too.

  _(“Don’t listen to him.”_

_“It’ll be all right.”)_

  Harry stops walking entirely, the awfulness of it all smothering him for a moment, making it impossible to keep walking, much less speak. This time, he doesn’t know if he can pull himself together again. He must, because Lily is _right there,_ but he doesn’t know if he can.

 Last time he told himself that this was crucial. That he must be like Dumbledore, keep a cool head, make sure there were backups, others to carry on. He’s not dying now, though; he doesn’t even know what must be done now. If time is broken, even though Marlene assured them it wasn’t, then he’s only breaking it further. If time has misplaced him, will allow him to make the changes he is trying to make, must he simply continue the hunt? Continue the fight? Alone and lost and friendless? Unknowing what has become of his friends or his sacrifice or his own time entirely?

 “Harry,” Lily says, urgently. She says his name as though this is not the first time she’s said it, and she says it again against the roar in Harry’s hears, the rushing of his heart and wrists and lungs. “Harry. Are you alright? Look at me, Harry, please.”

 Such a simple request, but Harry can’t comply, too wrought with remorse and despair and overwhelming guilt. He should never have come to Hogwarts. He should never have gone to Godric’s Hollow. He can’t bring himself to look into Lily Evans’ green eyes and see the distant pity of a stranger.

  _(“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”)_

 “Harry, it’s alright.”

 No, he can’t think of that right now. He can’t think of him. He would rather have almost anyone else’s memories trapped behind his eyes at the moment. How did he escape the silvery whispers before? He needs something, someone, who has little to do with Severus Snape and secrets. Someone good, someone brave, someone kind, who has never been anything but what he appears.

 “You can look at me, Harry. Everything’s fine.”

  _(“All right, Harry. You’re okay, are you?”)_

 “I’m fine, Ne-” Harry stops, then says instead, “Never mind, I’m fine.” 

 He takes a deep breath, even though it feels like a golden snidget against a thunderstorm. This memory he can follow, at least for a little while. Lily Potter, slight and red-haired and pale, is a strange replacement for a blonde, tanned, and broad young man, but she’ll have to do.

 “That’s good,” Lily says, hands hovering like she wants to reach out. She doesn’t, but Harry can feel ghostly fingers wrapped around his wrist, large and warm and callused, keeping him from moving on. “You’re okay, then?” 

  _(“We’re all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?”)_

 “Yeah, I-” Harry takes another deep breath. “Yeah.”

 His voice breaks on the single word and it sounds exactly like the lie it is. Lily doesn’t call him on it for some reason, just looks at him gently, standing a respectful distance back, and he’s grateful for that. The memory tries to continue, tries to walk on as the shade of Neville clasps his shoulder and moves on, towards a red-haired girl comforting another girl in the middle of the wasted halls.

 Ginny’s voice echoes despite all his attempts.

  _(“It’s all right. It’s okay. We’re going to get you inside.”)_

 Lily moves a little closer, hands still held like they’re being held back. “Harry, I don’t know what’s happening with you. I don’t know what you’re going through. Really, I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

  _(“But I want to go_ home. _I don’t want to fight anymore!”)_

 “I want to help you, however I can. What can I do to help you?”

  _(“I know,” said Ginny, and her voice broke. “It’s going to be all right.”)_

 “I don’t know,” Harry says hoarsely.

 “Well… this seems much worse than before,” Lily says. “Harry, please, look at me. Try to focus, I feel like I’m going to lose you again. Just look at me if you can and focus on breathing, okay?”

 Harry nods. His insides are in freefall, his wrist itches, and he can feel ripples of cold over his skin. The temptation of the Invisibility Cloak weighs like the world over his arm. He wants to speak, but he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to shout out to the night. _(He wanted Ginny to know that he was there, he wanted her to know where he was going._

_He wanted to be stopped, to be dragged back, to be sent back home…)_

 “Breathe, Harry. Please.”

 Harry breathes.

 “Is it something I said?” Lily asks. “Whatever’s happening here. Is it something I said? If it is, I want to know not to say it. Remember, we don’t have to talk about things yet if you don’t want to.”

 Lily was the one to bring up the deceased Order members, but Harry shakes his head. It wasn’t any of her fault. It’s not any of her fault that he can’t keep his head on straight. It’s not any of her fault that he can’t control his own trembling fingers and wasted lungs. It’s not any of her fault his head is so twisted and full and terrible. Lily Potter’s company is once again a loveliness, a gift, a mercy in the face of the great and terrible unknown.

 Even if her company is also awkward, uncertain, and empty of love and loss and longing. He is grateful, he thinks, he _should_ be grateful he knows, despite the grossness and guilt. Here, Lily Potter looks worried and uncertain and uncomfortable. She’s real and he… doesn’t want it. 

 “It’s me,” Harry assures her, breathless. “It’s me. I’m sorry, it’s me.”

 Lily’s lips purse in determination, with the shape and the stubbornness that belongs with scrubbing floors and sleeping in cupboards. The softness of her eyes is haunting, but it’s the only thing that keeps back the silvery threads stirring again behind Harry’s eyelids.

 “You were doing alright before,” Lily says.

  _I really, really wasn’t,_ Harry doesn’t say. _I was falling apart then too. I could just hide it then._

 Every second he breathes, the smell of dusty antiques, the weight of Lily’s gaze on his face, threatens to undo him. If a person can unravel, he’ll manage. At the same time he knows that he must go on, he doesn’t think he’ll be able. The long game of going with this dream, this trick, this cruel existence despite everything, is ending around him.

 “So there must have been something,” Lily continues firmly. “We’ll figure out what it was.”

 That seems like an impossibility to Harry, because it’s _everything,_ and Lily has no idea the mess going on inside his head. He can’t even understand why it’s _now_ that everything’s suddenly become too much to bear. Why now this next great adventure is too daunting to continue.

 “Harry,” Lily says. “Would you take my hand?”


	19. Stay Close to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thought that he would like to stand and look at her forever, to hold her hand and stay like this, but it’s not enough. It’s a mercy, but not enough of one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update, did you get both? I've never had to cut a chapter into thirds before and it had BETTER not happen again.
> 
> The cliffhanger with Regulus' side of things has still not been resolved. Again, don't worry, they're all fine and nobody's been busted. Nobody has come even remotely close to guessing who's at Marlene's door, but if you liked Marlene, then I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy the reveal. 
> 
> Anyway, more Harry and Lily.

 Harry looks at Lily and almost opens his mouth to remind her that there’d be no point in reaching out, that there’s no reason for her to look at him like that and hold out her free hand so gently, because his hand will surely only go through hers. He doesn’t though, instead reaching out automatically. It’s a surprise of sorts when Harry’s fingers brush Lily’s, finding them warm and solid.

 For a moment that lasts only seconds, only a couple breaths of silence, Harry and Lily stare at the meeting of their hands. Then, without taking her eyes away from their hands, Lily carefully threads her fingers through Harry’s. After a few seconds more, Lily looks up.

  _(“You’ve been so brave.”)_

 “Hello,” Lily says.

 Harry can’t immediately speak. He thought that he would like to stand and look at her forever, to hold her hand and stay like this, but it’s not enough. It’s a mercy, but not enough of one.

 “Hello,” Harry says weakly.

 “Should we sit for a time, do you think? There’s a desk over there that’ll do.”

 “The diadem-”

 “It can wait,” Lily says. “Jim can look for it. He’s nearly as good at sniffing things out as Sirius, you know. Foraging instincts, maybe? It’s been a long day all around. Let’s sit.”

 Harry is torn between being frozen where he stands and continuing the damnable walk forward. It feels strange to be gently pulled, Lily only half-turning to lead him, to sit for a moment. The last moment he let himself just sit for a moment, let himself rest, was… when he and Regulus sat on the bed together, without direction or urgency, just tired and grateful to be alive. Sitting on the top of a broad, sturdy, claw-marked desk with Lily gives a similar sort of feeling.

 Lily doesn’t let go of his hand as she settles next to him, far enough away to give him plenty of space between them, enough for another person. Even after they’re both settled, she doesn’t let go. Their hands rest between them on the desk and Lily sighs in relief.

 “That’s better,” she says.

 Harry says nothing, but Lily doesn’t seem to expect him to. Lily doesn’t continue speaking either, just sits next to him and stares out towards the stacks of furniture and objects, the experiments and abandoned things, like the dusty knick-knacks are a veritable sunset of a view. The silence and vast space of the room looms around them, an awkwardness settling in between, and Harry’s free hand clenches the cool fabric of the Invisibility Cloak spilled beside him as he tries not to think of fire.

 Harry focuses on taking deep breaths, on Lily’s hand in his, on the here and now and known.

 “It probably wasn’t a good idea to talk about friends like that,” Lily says. “Merlin knows that I should be able to recognize that sort of pain when I see it. Marl would probably swat me if she were here right now. I’m sorry.”

 “It’s fine,” Harry says.

 Lily shakes her head, still not looking at him. “I don’t think it is. I won’t naysay how you say you feel, but you don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not. It’s okay not to be fine. _Marlene_ knows that I’ve not been fine sometimes. You can ask her. You don’t have to hide yourself from us, Harry; it’s pretty clear that you’ve had some terrible things happen to you. It’s not your fault.”

  _(“You have permitted-”)_

 “Besides, I didn’t say sorry to make you feel guilty or anything. My saying sorry wasn’t about you needing to forgive me so I feel better, it was about letting you know that I am sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’d do differently if I could do it over, and I’m going to try not to do anything to upset you again.”

 “Oh…”

 “Sorry,” Lily says again. She lifts her other hand, still holding her wand, to rub at her eyes, her lips pursing again momentarily before she forcibly relaxes them. “I have opinions on apologies, Jim says. I have opinions _period,_ says Jim. Hello, cauldron, you’re black.”

 Harry tries to laugh, because the offhand, fond disgust is so very familiar, but it’s too familiar and he ends up choking on a sob instead. He raises his hand away from the cloak – he won’t use it as a tissue, not when it’s not even really his now – and rubs uselessly at the tears welling. He only manages to spread the salt water over his face and the stream seems endless, just as the shaking of his shoulders won’t stop. Through the blur, he sees Lily being kind enough to pretend that a hazardous stack of mouldy armchairs is more interesting than him falling apart.

  _(“You’ll stay with me?”)_

 Harry presses nerveless fingers to his wet face, pressing up under his glasses to reach streaming eyes, more to hide his face than wipe away the tears. He brings his knees up, perching his feet on an open drawer, and hunches in on himself. His shoulders heave, his lungs stutter, and he gasps against his knees, through running nose and eyes, like a drowning man needing air. He doesn’t know why he even tries to hide, it’s not like he can hide and it’s not like he can close the holes.

  _(“They won’t be able to see you?”)_

 Harry cries… and cries and cries and cries. He doesn’t know why he sobs, why he can’t stop it now, though he could name a thousand reasons for his tears. Trying to stifle them just makes it worse, so he hasn’t any choice but to cry and cry and cry.

 He still tries to stifle them.

 It’s exhausting; it’s embarrassing, no, _humiliating;_ and yet Lily doesn’t look at him once while her hand holds him through it. The warmth of her touch a priceless anchor, her steadiness everything. Harry lightly tried to pull away, curling in on himself, but Lily rejected that offer and remains exactly where she is. Her fingers squeeze at his, reassuring and gentle.

  _(“Stay close to me.”)_

 Harry cries until it feels as though he’s sobbed himself dry. He doesn’t know how long. There’s a damp patch on his knees and his hands are soaked, and there’s a grossly fresh feeling all over his face by the time he can finally stop to just gasp and breathe. He takes deep breaths, occasional aftershocks running through his shoulders and his attempts to breathe deeply and surely.

 “…Sorry,” Harry says finally.

 “It’s fine,” Lily says – like it’s simple, like it’s easy, like it really is just fine. “I don’t mind. I’ve heard it said that sometimes you need to cry to let the bad feelings out before they drown you. Honestly, I wish I learned that a lot sooner than I did.”

 Harry nods, still wiping at his face like he’ll be able to get rid of the evidence if he tries hard enough, even though there’s no way anyone won’t immediately know what he’s been doing. His eyes and face are probably hopelessly red.

 Harry doesn’t answer Lily because he doesn’t know how to without apologizing again. Instead, he unfolds his legs and stretches them out to rest on a discarded trunk, putting his free hand on the desk next to the cloak and leaning back. All opened up, he breathes deeply in, then deeply out with the hope it’ll take the tears and memories with it.

 Lily doesn’t immediately say anything either, but she mimics him by stretching herself as much as she can without leaving the desk or letting go of his hand. She reaches up to brush hair come free of her braid out of her eyes and breathes deeply too.

 Harry, watching her out of the corner of his eye, looks away guiltily, then leans even farther back to let himself stare up at the high ceilings instead. He nearly jumps out of his own skin when he touches against a curtain of some sort, yanking his hand away as though the rough, dusty cloth might eat it. 

 “What is it?” Lily demands, her wand raised, her fingers tight against his.

 “I…” Harry looks behind him. “Nothing.”

 Behind them is a large object, as wide as the desk and at least two meters tall, covered in cloth. When Harry touched it, he’d felt a cool and smooth surface through the covering. Looking at it now, he can see its square-ish shape and relative flatness, and he wonders.

 Harry reaches out with his free hand and pulls some of the cloth aside, just enough to peek beneath, and nearly immediately recoils again. He doesn’t, but if he had, it would have been with even greater fear. As it is, he wastes no time in letting go of the cloth. The object’s surface revealed for only a moment is enough to send a shiver down his spine.

 “What is it?” Lily repeats.

 “…A mirror,” Harry answers.

 And, if he isn’t mistaken in recognizing the beaten frame, a familiar one.

 “Is it dangerous?” Lily asks.

 Harry shakes his head. “It’s not even magical as far as I know. It’s just… I’ve seen it before. I wasn’t expecting it.”

 “Is it important?”

 In some small way, maybe, but not particularly. “Not really.”

 “Mm?” Lily’s inquisitive noise prods at him to go on, but she quickly follows up with: “If it’s a bad memory, you don’t have to tell me.”

 “It’s not a _bad_ memory,” Harry assures her honestly.

 It inspires happy recollections mostly. Joyful memories of loyalty and friendship and determination, with the mirror nothing more than a piece of furniture in the background. Memories where the mirror is more notable are bittersweet, but not without goodness.

 “This room…” Harry begins carefully. “It’s called the Room of Requirement, and sometimes you need the room where everything is hidden but sometimes you need a different room. Me and my friends needed it for a secret club room. It looked completely different: a lot smaller, none of these mountains of junk. I didn’t even know about the Room of Hidden Things until a year later.”

 His voice is hoarse and his limbs feel weak, but speaking openly is at once terrifying and like taking something back. He can see Lily looking at him again, and he looks back at her. There’s nothing like judgement there in her eyes, just someone listening.

 “The Room can _make_ things you need: furniture, training dummies, beds. We needed a space to practice Defense. I can’t remember if it was there when we first came in or if someone asked for it, but there was a mirror in there. We glued some photographs and newspaper articles to it, or magazine articles. To inspire people. Or just stupid stuff to make them laugh.”

 Colin had started it, Harry thinks, putting up pictures of proper duelling forms so he could practice them in the mirror. That’d been a good idea. Then the next thing anyone knew, the mirror had become an occasional message board and scrapbooking project for the whole D.A.

 Fred and George had put up advertisements for their products and volunteers to test them, then some newspaper photographs of Ministry officials with offensively vandalized headlines when Hermione ripped their first addition down. Hermione had added several newspaper and magazine articles on non-human rights for other people to read. Ron and Ginny had added a couple postcards that Bill and Charlie had sent them, complete with encouragements for the club on the back. Harry remembers all of it: a sketch of Seamus as a mule from Dean, Teen Witch Weekly’s latest duelling fashion photographs from Lavender and Pavarti, a Charms journal article on the nature of the Patronus from Cho, a picture of Cedric that Ernie had determinedly put up and dared anyone to argue with, a basic guide to magical first aid from Hannah Abbott, pro-Quidditch bets run by Lee, studying tips from Terry Boot, notable Quibbler articles from Luna, and more besides.

 By the end of it, honestly, there’d been very little mirror left for Colin to practice his duelling forms. Luckily, by then, Colin was confident enough in himself and the help of his friends not to need the mirror. Colin had also been too invested in and delighted by the group collage to mind.

 Harry exhales deeply. “This is the mirror. Either that or the room copied it to make a mirror for us, and maybe this one is magical and cursed,” he says. It seems unlikely that the Room would give up its hidden things like that. “I don’t know.”

  The mirror and most of everything on it was destroyed when the D.A. was busted. Including the copy of a group photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Harry had shared it with Neville, Neville had nervously suggested they put it up, and Ginny had gotten Colin to make some copies when Harry was reluctant to give it up. One for Harry, one for Neville, and one for the D.A.

 Harry sighs again and hangs his head. He doesn’t know. He’d probably cry again if he had any tears left. By the pinpricks at the edges of his eyes, he might, but his swallow feels dry.

  _(“Just in case they’re… busy... and you get the chance-”_

_“Kill the snake?”)_

 “Huh, I wonder how it works,” Lily says. “That’s interesting. I wonder what it does if it has to make something it doesn’t have. It must have some mind-reading ability, but relying on that to create objects sounds difficult at best. I wonder how clever it is. Wait, I’m interrupting. Continue.”

  _(“Kill the snake.”)_

 “I…”

 “Yes?” Lily prompts when Harry trails off.

 “I don’t know a lot of the people you mentioned. I never met them. I don’t know why. I could figure why, but I don’t know for sure.” Now that Harry’s speaking, even hoarse and pained and dry, the words are tumbling out. “It’s… I did meet _some_ people you know… probably. Order members.”

 “Well, I do know the all the other Order members,” Lily agrees.

 Deep breath. In. Out.

 “Frank and Alice Longbottom.”

 “Yes, I know them. They’re lovely people, aren’t they?”

 Harry doesn’t immediately answer. Harry can’t even manage to answer after nearly a whole minute of terrible silence. Second by second passes and Lily’s face visibly falls as the silence draws out.

 “They’re… not dead,” Harry says finally, in the poorest man’s attempt at reassurance. At least, they aren’t dead as far as he knows. He didn’t hear anything about Saint Mungo’s being attacked or controlled, but if they went after Neville’s grandmother, they might’ve gone after his parents too.

 “…That’s good,” Lily says.

 “I guess, um; they were kidnapped and tortured by the Lestranges after Vold- You-Know-Who went missing. He went missing for a bit, by the way, for about ten years and everybody thought he was dead. The Lestranges and Barty Crouch wanted to know where he was, so they… attacked the Longbottoms… who lived, it’s just… they weren’t well after.”

 Harry feels terrible sharing this. He promised that he wouldn’t share what had happened to Neville’s parents around and it feels like breaking that promise a bit to share it now. He’d never managed to figure out how he felt about Frank and Alice Longbottom. Mostly he’d felt like it was somehow his fault or become so overwhelmingly angry or sad on Neville’s behalf, so he didn’t like to think about it. He still doesn’t like thinking about it now.

 “At least Neville got to know his parents, sort of,” Harry says. “Better than nothing, I guess. The Lestranges and Barty went to Azkaban. Moody caught them, I think. I wasn’t there.” The Pensieve memory of the trial doesn’t count, Harry thinks. “So… I guess what I’m trying to say is that we should stop that from happening? I thought of it earlier, I… someone ought to know if we’re changing things. I don’t want to forget.”

 Maybe Neville Longbottom can grow up with parents that can tell him they’re proud of him. Although Harry knows that Neville hasn’t been born yet and won’t be till late July. If he is at all… which is an awful thought, Harry doesn’t like it at all.

 “Barty Crouch… as in Head of the Department of Magical _Law Enforcement_ Barty Crouch?” Lily says, wide-eyed.

 “Oh,” Harry says. “Oh, no. His son. His son’s a Death Eater. Barty Crouch Junior. Mr. Crouch doesn’t know. I had the same bit of confusion a few times, actually, when I saw him on the Marauder’s Map, because I didn’t know he had a son. It’s his son.”

 His son who successfully impersonated Alastor Moody for a whole year. His son who seems to have been the first person to have been successfully and _secretly_ broken out of Azkaban. His son who was Kissed and dismissed because Cornelius Fudge was a bloody coward.

 “…I think I know who you’re talking about,” Lily says. “I think he’s still here at Hogwarts.”

 Harry is going to try not to think about how the boy who could be the man who handed him over the Lord Voldemort and tortured Neville’s parents is alive and in the castle right now.

 “We are very much going to stop that from happening,” Lily says determinedly. “It’s not going to happen soon, right?”

 It takes Harry a moment to think it over. “Not until late 1981 at least.”

 “Then it’s not going to happen.”

 The determination is Lily’s voice is like a weight off Harry’s shoulders. His eyes are stinging again, like they’re trying to water again, and he blinks back another crying fit before it can happen. A tear escapes him, but besides that he’s successful.

 “Thanks,” Harry says.

 “Not a problem,” Lily assures him. “Whenever you’re ready to share things, Harry, I’ll be here to listen. Even if they’re horrible… especially if they’re horrible if we’re trying to stop terrible things from happening, so don’t worry about that. I’d rather hear about terrible things happening to my friends than have those things happen, which sounds sort of awful but still.”

 Harry nods, because he thinks he agrees with that sentiment. He’s sort of busy focusing on not crying again and thinking about that sort of sentiment isn’t really helping.

 “The only person I’d be really concerned about when you’re ready to share things with us is Marlene,” Lily says, almost conversationally, smiling weakly at him. “She’s got a great big ego, you know. She’s going to feel fantastically outdone and none of us are going to hear the end of it.”

 Without a clue as to how he manages it, Harry snorts.

 “Oh, you think it’s funny now, but you’ll _See._ ”

 Harry coughs. “Was that-?”

 “Maybe. I didn’t take Divination, so I can’t be held accountable if that was bad.”  

 Lily’s smile is stronger now and Harry finds himself caught between laughing and crying. He focuses on taking down on both urges – he’s not laughing at that, that was _bad_ – and ignoring the cloth-covered mirror behind them. He’s not in the mood for mirrors. It’s probably cursed anyway.

 “Hey, Harry, would you mind if I asked you something?”

 “…Depends. What is it?”

 “Are we dead in your time? Jim and I?” Lily asks.

 Harry looks at Lily again, but she’s not looking at him. Her smile is still there, but it’s transparent like glass and quivering slightly. There’s a glistening to her green eyes that wasn’t there before, as she stares without focus at the furniture across the way, her chin held high.  

 “I know there are some things you don’t want to talk about – we just covered that – and that’s fine, but… if you’re trying to change things… I’m… well… saying that I’m ‘morbidly curious’ is a bit in bad taste, isn’t it?” Lily says, making a grimace towards the mouldy armchairs across the way. “It’s either that or ‘dying to know’ and I think that’s worse.”

 “…Just a bit,” Harry agrees, too stunned to react to the pun. Either of them.

 “Well, are we dead?”

 “…Yeah.”

 “Oh,” says Lily, quietly. “That’s disheartening.”

 “That’s not another pun, is it?”

 “Not intentionally. I’m not feeling very witty or funny right now.”

 “Yeah,” Harry agrees again.

 Lily’s eyes glisten even brighter for a moment, before she says, hoarsely, “When?”

 “Sorry?”

 “When do we die?” Lily clarifies, but then she continues without waiting. “I could guess though. October thirty-first, 1981, wasn’t it? You would’ve been very young then. Only about a year old. That’s terrible.”

 “…It was, yeah,” Harry says. “How… how did you guess?”

 Lily exhales, a long and shuddering breath. “A hundred little things? A feeling? People don’t generally survive being given up to You-Know-Who, that was the big one. _‘How did we live?’_ I thought. Once the thought crossed my mind, I figured it probably happened then for you to be so angry if it happened at all. I was hoping you’d tell me I was being ridiculous.”

 “Sorry,” Harry says, his throat feeling swollen. “I’m sorry.”

  _(“I’m not interested.”)_

 “No, it’s not your fault,” Lily says, against the silvery memory of her saying the opposite.

  _It kind of is,_ Harry doesn’t say, because he doesn’t know where to begin to explain Trelawney’s prophecy. Because he doesn’t know how to share the haunted memories of Lily begging him to spare her son’s life. Because he doesn’t know how to reveal the demand Snape made for her life without thought to her son or husband. Because he doesn’t know how to tell her that Voldemort would have let her live if she’d been willing to abandon him.

 “I’m sorry,” Harry says again instead of all those things.

  _(“Save your breath.”)_

 “I want to say it’s fine,” Lily says. “We’re going to change things, right? So things like that don’t happen? To me or to Marlene or… Jim… or Frank or Alice or anyone else! It’s not going to happen, so it’s fine.” She still hasn’t looked at him. “It’s okay.”

  _(“I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here-”)_

 Again, Harry doesn’t answer Lily because he doesn’t know how to without apologizing. Two lives’ worth of remorse are stuck in his throat. If he were standing, his knees would have given out from under him by now and he would have walked into something with the silver haze dizzying his vision.

 Very, very gently, Harry lets his fingers curl more surely around Lily Evans’ and he squeezes. He does it so fearfully that it’s a bit of a surprise when Lily actually looks at him again. She’s pale and pursed and her eyes are so very green.

  _(“Look… at… me…”)_

 “You said that You-Know-Who went missing for nearly ten years,” she says.

 “Yes,” Harry agrees.

 “In 1981, after Hallowe’en but before anything happens to Frank and Alice.”

 “On Hallowe’en.”

 Lily is silent for several seconds before she says, “Something happened that night. Something big.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Something that… everybody else should probably hear too.”

 “Probably.”

 Lily nods and says nothing else. For several seconds, she and Harry look at each other, saying nothing, and very, very gently she squeezes his hand back and smiles weakly. Harry smiles back, probably equally as strained. They sit there in silence a while longer.

 “I hope Jim is having better luck than we’re having,” Lily says. “I hope Marl and Sirius and the others are having better luck too. It’s sad to say, but they probably need it even more than we do. I hope no one’s hexed anyone, since it’s likely pointless to hope there’s been no arguments.”

 “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Harry says dryly.

 “Me neither.”

 Then, after another few seconds of silence, Lily squeezes his hand again.

 “Thanks for telling me, Harry.”

 “Not a problem,” Harry assures her.

 She doesn’t call him on the blatant lie. She doesn’t let go of his hand. They sit on the desk together, after a few moments looking away to stare out towards nothing and everything, and Harry wonders if they’re both trying not to cry.

 He doesn’t lean back again. He doesn’t think about magical mirrors and the things that might be seen in them, especially not a young woman with unruly dark hair and a red-haired young man. He doesn't think about the humiliation of breaking down in front of a beloved stranger. He doesn’t think about the uncertainties in two different futures, one left behind and the other still ahead, except how he does and it’s as awful as the memories he can’t seem to escape.

  _(“I thought… you were going… to keep her… safe…”_

_“She and James put their faith in the wrong person. Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?”)_

 Lily’s fingers thread even more tightly through his.

  _(“Her boy survives.”)_

 Harry breathes, opens his eyes to the unburnt Room, and returns the gesture.

 It’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I unfortunately don't have some one-shot to rec here atm. I'm working on some, but they're either getting away from me or being difficult eating their greens. I do have another long WIP time-travel fic that people might enjoy if they're interested: [**Into the Arena**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4472270/chapters/10164680) is very different to FDITH, but it features Harry and Teddy and it's fun.


	20. Glittering Would Be Generous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What proceeds is probably not the strangest affair of Harry’s life, nor does it even come close, but it’s still slightly unreal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a double update, and the next one finally breaks the mystery of who's at the door. I didn't want to update without finally solving that. It's been too long.

 Harry and Lily sit there for maybe ten minutes longer, not saying anything. Lily kicks her legs absentmindedly, looking tightly wound as she comes in and out of thought, her hand intermittently squeezing his. Harry squeezes back when he can find the courage, focuses on breathing, and tries to think about things that aren’t objectively horrifying or full of death and sorrow. He finds himself playing with the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak and not thinking of much of anything.

 It’s hard to tell how much time passes really. Harry’s never had much of a knack for time, especially not over the past week, so he doesn’t know how much time they’ve spent in the Room of Hidden Things. He figures it’s been about ten minutes since they stopped talking when they’re finally interrupted by footsteps sauntering down the way.

 “There I am, hunting alone in the wilds of abandoned furniture for some of the most awful magic known to _McKinnon-kind_ _–_ which’s a step worse than awful magic known to regular people, by the way – and here you are lazing about atop a desk, smug as sirens on a beach,” James Potter announces. “Lily, love, you lazy temptress. What’s all this about?”

 If anything, Lily relaxes deeper into her seat on the desk before she replies without a hint of shame, “We’re taking a much-deserved break, Jim, dear. Drowning nosy wizards is just so much work.”

 Harry nervously and subtly tries to tug his hand away from Lily’s, but her firm grip makes it clear that nothing short of flinging himself off the desk will free him from hand-holding. James, approaching them with a massive grin, clearly spots their joined hands. His smile doesn’t move, but his brow furrows for a second. The wrinkle is gone by the time he reaches Harry and Lily, and there’s something almost soft in his face when Harry forces himself to meet James’ eyes.

 “Alright there, Harry?” James says, still smiling. “She didn’t get you into too much trouble, did she?”

 “Um, no.”

 “Good, good. You can’t let her talk you into anything, you know, you’ll find yourself- _oof._ ”

 Lily removes her foot where she’s mockingly pretended to kick her husband in the stomach. “Shush, you. Don’t you tell him lies about me.” She raises her nose so high in the air that she’s essentially looking up. “I have never caused trouble a day in my life.”

 James looks caught between two overdramatic reactions, chokes on both, and sputters. “What-?! _What?_ ” He laughs and dodges out of the way as Lily lightly kicks at him again.

 “I don’t go looking for trouble,” Harry says knowledgeably. “Trouble usually finds me.”

 James stops jumping about and Lily stops mockingly kicking at him, and they both look at Harry. James raises his eyebrows, doing a half-decent job at containing a grin. Lily outright beams at him.

 “Exactly!” Lily says.

 “Get into a lot of trouble, do you, Harry?” James asks, grinning widely, as though Harry hasn’t given more than enough evidence that trouble might as well be an old, really shit friend. His brown eyes are soft and they dance and he doesn’t show any sign he knows Harry’s been crying.

 Harry shrugs, forcing playfulness into stiff shoulders. “A bit.”

 “Well, now you know where you get it from,” James says, then points. “It’s her. It’s all her. You should blame her entirely.” He dodges a kick that had no chance of reaching him, smiling like exactly the sort of fool who laughs at Bludgers. “I had nothing to do with it!”

 “Jim, dear, _shut up!_ ”

 James laughs and settles, still buzzing with the game. “Alright! Alright. While you two were lazing about, I’m pretty sure I found You-Know-Who’s sparkly tiara! I shouted, but I don’t think you heard me, so I figured I’d find you so we could figure out what to do with it.”

 Lily and Harry both straighten. “Jim, wh-”

 “I didn’t touch it or anything,” James says, near indignantly. “I heard what Harry said earlier same as anyone else. I like this face where it is, thank you very much, and it doesn’t deserve to be possessed or whatnot by a piece of evil jewellery.”

 “So what’d you do with it?” Lily asks.

 “Marked it and left it where it was, of course,” James answers, holding up his wand for the first time and giving it a performative twirl and flick for Harry and Lily’s inspection. He gestures towards his wand and bows slightly. “Not-a-lady and gentleman of the labyrinth… your evil crown awaits courtesy of Ariadne’s Thread... and me… who did all the work.” 

 At the tip of James’ wand is a long golden thread, softly lit, which winds through the air and around a pile of misshapen and oddly size lamps with much space to spare. It bobs gently with James’ movements, the ripples floating off in the direction of an unknown destination.

 Lily leans back and smiles at her grinning husband. “All the work? Any work. For once.”

 James winces with all the appropriate drama, bringing his non-wand hand down to once again mime a blow to his heart. Then, still bowed, he offers that hand to his wife, despite beyond several steps out of kicking-range. “Shall we, my siren of the storage seas?”

 With great dignity, Lily hops off the desk and reaches with her wand hand for James. Harry tugs lightly on their joined hands again, but somehow ends up being pulled to stand as Lily puts her hand, wand included, in James’ palm. Harry only barely manages to grab the Invisibility Cloak. James looks between his wife and Harry with raised eyebrows. Lily ignores them both, holding their hands with immoveable friendliness. Her shortness allows her to avoid their stares by simply not looking up.

 “Lily, love?” James says.

 “Never mind that,” Lily says. “Too much to do for questions, Jim, dear. Keep up.”

 With perhaps even greater dignity and no further ado, Lily marches forward, dragging James and Harry with her. Harry and James exchange a look but follow nevertheless. In the new openness of his chest, Harry feels more bemused than anything else. James appears to share the feeling.

 The march through the Room of Hidden Things isn’t especially noteworthy. James plays with the golden thread spun from his wand, making it wriggle in the air. Lily asks how James managed to find the diadem and James, while twirling glowing loops, answers that he pretty much just saw it while wandering through the maze. Lily looks sceptical but doesn’t prod, so James strikes up conversation about some of the other neat things he’s stumbled upon as they pass them.

 Harry’s just pointed out that there really isn’t any warning for stuffed trolls besides the warning he already gave when they came in, when they turn a corner and James’ rolling eyes land on something that halts his response. Harry follows his gaze to the end of the gold thread.

 “Is that it?” Lily says as they approach.

 “Yeah,” Harry says.

 “I mean, unless it grew legs,” James answers at the same time. 

 The infamous Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw is on a pillow sitting squarely on the top of a dresser, looking like nothing more than a discoloured old tiara. Describing it as glittering would be a lie, shining would be generous, and in matching company the truth. The embroidered pillow is motheaten, the carved dresser stands crooked, fancier but no less dormant or dusty than the abandoned junk surrounding them. All maybe dreaming of days passed being the finer things in life.

 “It’s… a lot duller than I was expecting,” Lily says finally, as they come to a stop. She releases both James and Harry, putting her hands on her hips, then purses her lips and stares down. “It’s pretty… just a lot dingier than I expected.”

 “It fit the description,” James argues. He dissipates the golden thread with a careful flick of his wand, the thread snapping off the end before melting into thin air. “I wasn’t expecting it to be sitting out in the open like this. Alright, but… where’s the lake-full of Necromancy? Where’s the unimaginable horrors and aforementioned Fiendfyre? Where’s the _art?_ Al… oof.”

 Lily not-so-subtly retracts the hand that, according to her expression, absolutely lightly thwapped her husband in the stomach of its own accord. She had nothing to do with it, even if she agrees with her hand that he had to be stopped. 

 “Well… you could go complain to Tom, I suppose,” Harry says.

 James and Lily both look away from the diadem. James pauses rubbing at the back of his neck with a free hand, then raises his eyebrows. 

 “Lodge a formal complaint,” Harry continues, trying very hard not to imagine those unimaginable horrors. It’s hard, given that he’s already seen them all. “‘Sorry, Dark Lord, good sir, but I’m trying to destroy your Horcruxes and they’re disproportionally protected. I was very disappointed when retrieving Ravenclaw’s Diadem. One out of five stars.’”

 James is grinning widely halfway through and Lily makes her amused sound at the end.

 “It’s a bit of a let-down,” James agrees cheerfully. “Not that I’m actually complaining.”

 Lily makes the amused sound again.

 “But… this is it, then? This is an actual piece of You-Know-Who’s soul?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Just sitting right there. In plain sight.”

 “Yeah.”

 “I was half-expecting you to tell me I’d found the wrong thing.”

 “Uh, no. That’s it.”

 “Really?”

 Harry snorts. “Yes, really.”

 “Alright, well… I suppose I’d never guess unless I knew what I was looking for,” James says. “But he never thought someone might wander in here and recognize Ravenclaw’s lost crown? It’s on her statue in the Ravenclaw common room!”

 “Arrogance,” Harry answers. “He thought he was the only one to have uncovered Hogwarts’ greatest secrets. That he alone knew about the Room of Hidden Things.”

 “…But he’s clearly not the only one to have used it,” Lily says, confused.

 Harry shrugs and says again, “Arrogance. He really thought that.”

 “You sound very certain of this,” Lily answers immediately, her brow still furrowed and lips still pursed. Harry can see the question hovering on the tip of her tongue: _How do you know this? How were you privy to the innermost workings of Voldemort’s mind?_

 “I’ve met one of his Horcruxes,” Harry explains, carefully opting out of the loop of memories tiredly stirring. Crying seems to have helped with avoiding them, or thinking over them without feeling like he’s falling apart. He’s got a bit of a headache now, though, and could use a drink.

 “Met?”

 “They’re pieces of his soul. They can think. Possess. Manifest to some degree,” Harry explains, paraphrasing one of Hermone’s ramblings during their camping, after she’d read Dumbledore’s books and interrogated Harry for notes. “They’re sort of stuck at the age he made them. It turns out he’s pretty much always been an arrogant, evil bastard.”

 James and Lily both seem to shy away from the diadem slightly.

 “Who monologues,” Harry adds, like an afterthought. “A lot. That’s how Regulus figured out he had Horcruxes, I think. He talks a lot about how great and clever he is, thinking that no one could ever put together the clues he can’t help but brag about. ‘I who have travelled further along the path to immortality than anyone’ and all that.”

 “Sounds dreadfully dull,” James says, grinning, as though complaining about a boring professor.

 Harry grins back. “Underneath the terrifying, yeah, a bit. He didn’t think anyone else knew about this room and he didn’t have much time to hide it here. He hides his Horcruxes in places that have personal meaning to him, mostly, so one had to be at Hogwarts. Sometime before the war started, I think, he came to ask for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position and hide the diadem here. Dumbledore turned him down and wasn’t about to let him hang around the school. He was in a rush.”

 James and Lily’s expressions are stunned. James looks practically aghast.

 “You-Know-Who wanted to teach _Defence Against_ the Dark Arts?” James demands.

 “It would’ve been just Dark Arts under him, but yeah, probably just long enough to set himself up as Headmaster and destroy anything good about Hogwarts. The school means a lot to him.” Not enough not to destroy it, in the end, but Voldemort had been burning just about everything down by the end. “When he didn’t get the position, he jinxed the job.”

 James and Lily are silent for a good several seconds, and Harry nervous ruffles at his hair.

 “The job’s _jinxed?_ It’s not just an awful joke and a string of bad luck, but an actual curse?” Lily says.

 “Considering we never managed to keep a Defence teacher for more than a year when _I_ was at Hogwarts, yeah, I’d say so,” Harry confirms. “That’s a bit more than a string of bad luck. They were getting… pretty bad by the end there.”

 Quirrel was dull, but alright. Lockhart was a disaster. Lupin was fantastic. Barty was… educational, if in hindsight, terribly scarring. Umbridge was _awful._ Snape was less awful, which really said something about Umbridge, because it was _Snape;_ he wasn’t a _fun_ teacher, but he did teach them _._ Then the Carrows, who were apparently what Harry figured Umbridge would have been if she’d been a bit more of the Death Eater sort of evil purist and allowed to openly torture children.

 “Yes. Two Death Eaters, you said?” Lily says, strangled.

 “ _What?_ ” James demands, definitely aghast now.

 “Well… four-ish,” Harry corrects, holding up his fingers to count them. “One was only being possessed by You-Know-Who. One was impersonating Mad-Eye Moody using Polyjuice for a year under Tom’s orders. One was a… sort of double-agent… I guess. The last one was just a regular Death Eater, but I’d left school by then, so I didn’t count seventh year before.”

 James and Lily are silent for some more good seconds.

 “At this point, if I didn’t already think you’re alright, Harry, I’d believe you on the point that I’m not sure a person could make any of what you say up,” James says finally. “ _Four_ Death Eaters? I’m terrified to ask what the other three were like.”

 That’s… fair, Harry decides.

 “One was pure evil, but not a Death Eater,” Harry says, just to get it over with. “One was an idiot who lied about everything he’d ever done in his best-selling book series. And our third year teacher was actually excellent. One of the best teachers I’ve ever had.”

 “Well, that’s something,” James says, still somewhat aghast.

 Harry knows he’s enjoying this more than is necessary or really makes sense, but it’s sort of amusing to have some of the things that have happened to him put into a different perspective. It’s also somewhat alarming just how much of his life was abnormal even by magical standards, but he’d figured that out a while back and had gotten used to it. It’s fairly funny now.

 There was happiness back there too. He needs to remember that.

 “It was Remus,” Harry says.

 James and Lily look at him again, but James only looks long enough to find some glimmer of truth in Harry’s expression before he starts _howling_ with laughter. Whatever sound of amusement Lily makes is completely lost in the face of James cackling to put any caricature of a witch to shame.

 He doesn’t really stop cackling either.

 “Jim!” Lily admonishes, laughing.

 James shakes his head, either miming or wiping an actual tear from his ear. “Pads is going to _cry_!” he declares delightedly. “ _I’m_ going to cry! Professor Remus! Oh, that’s just _perfect!_ ”

 Harry grins back, because he imagines he’d feel much the same about the idea of Professor Hermione… or Professor Ron. He can see it in some ways, but it does make him want to laugh and cry, because it’d really be Professor Granger or Professor Weasley and _that_ he can’t see.

 “Professor Lupin, actually,” Harry corrects.

 James pauses at the same time that Lily makes an amused sound before she can help it, and James takes one look at her with her hand over her mouth – too little, too late, they all heard that – and immediately starts crowing again. Lily looks just about ready to stomp her foot.

 “Jim! Oh, at this rate, everything’ll be ashes by the time we get back to Marl’s!”

 “Ashes?” Harry repeats curiously.

 James stops laughing and mimes… no, wait, wipes an actual tear from his eye. “Because Sirius and his brother get along like a house on fire,” he explains. “And Lily somehow managed to find friends who stir _almost_ as much trouble as she does. Oh, Lily, love, come on, don’t make that face. Could you really say that Marlene McKinnon wouldn’t let her house burn down to prove a point?”

 Lily looks back at her husband and glares silently, lips pursed. Her expression says very clearly that she would very much _like_ to say that.

 “Dorcas would stop her,” Lily says instead.

 Harry hopes so, because now that he’s thinking about it, he’s not entirely sure that Regulus _or_ Sirius wouldn’t let a house burn down to prove a point. Regulus has seemed pretty sensible so far, if a bit spoiled and snobbish, even when forced into situations he’s clearly not happy about, but he did get sort of weird around Sirius. Harry’s noticed that a lot of purebloods who say it like it’s something to be proud of, even the nicer ones, tend to be… well, _careless_ , or something like that.

 James doesn’t really look like he agrees with Lily’s statement on the character of Dorcas Meadowes, but he doesn’t voice any disagreement. Instead, James sighs off the last of his laughter and says, “Alright, well, you’re gonna have to tell me _all_ about that later, Harry. For now, let’s start with how to move the evil crown. How’s it done?”

 “I… just picked it up.”

 “ _Now_ you’re messing with me.”

 “No, I really just picked it up,” Harry answers. Twice actually, though he wasn’t really paying attention the first time. “Usually they’re okay to pick up. You just can’t wear them – most of them – or hold on to them for very long. The diadem should be alright.”

 “…That’s what I’d say to my mum right before I proved her right,” James mutters, looking thoughtfully towards the diadem.

 “I don’t think we should touch it,” Lily agrees. “Jim, you see a bag about?”

 What proceeds is probably not the strangest affair of Harry’s life, nor does it even come close, but it’s still slightly unreal. They spend the next couple minutes searching for a bag or something suitable for James to transfigure; Lily is the one who finds a large, ratty bookbag that turns out not to be cursed or enchanted. After airing the mothballs out, Lily opens it wide and scoops both the diadem and embroidered pillow into the bookbag and deftly ties it closed. And… that’s that.

 “I feel cheated,” James says, but Lily ignores him so Harry does too.

 Lily slings the bookbag over her shoulder and declares, “Time to go home. Well. Marl and Dory’s home, at least. Maybe Marl’ll have dinner on by now.”

 “Yeah, over the coals where her house used to be.”

 “Shut up, Jim.”

 They leave the Room of Hidden Things immediately, going directly for the door. James leads the way with confidence, Lily adjusts the bag over her shoulder like she’s trying to ignore it, and Harry does his best not to think about fire or ruin or anything else. He does wince still, but now due to a physical ache in his head rather than any memory. He cried himself dry, it seems.

 It’s easier to find the way out of the Room than it was to wander around it, the door seeming to come to them as much as them to the door. Lily Disillusions herself again to poke her head out, James having confirmed they’re well into fifth period now and classes are still in session.

 “Should we try to get the Room to make a tunnel out?” James asks.

 Harry considers it, before saying, “Where to? I don’t know if we’re desperate enough for that. I don’t know if this version does things like that. We might have to leave the Room and come back in.”

 “I’d rather go the way we came in than stare at a wall and hope,” Lily says, mostly invisible, her shimmering arm reaching up to tap her husband on the head with her wand. James dribbles into the background quickly, his accepting shrug melting into the wall. “Harry, the cloak, if you would?”

 Harry complies and they set out again. It’s almost depressingly easy to wind their way through the castle, quick and silent. A few paintings might catch the glimmer of Lily and James in the air, but they don’t seem to think much of it beyond students up to their usual trouble, if they suspect anything at all.

 They’re all back at the One-Eyed Witch before they know it, having encountered no one in the halls save one young student with their face and all attention deep in their book. Harry froze when the student let out a soft exclamation behind them, but when he turned, a hand on the knife that had yet to leave his pocket, he realized it had been because the student had walked face-first into a wall. Must have been a good book. Or just a Ravenclaw.

 Down the passageway behind the One-Eyed Witch statue again, then up into the Honeydukes cellar, and then, after waiting for an employee to go by, through the busy yet empty kitchen and quickly out the back door again. Harry focuses on walking, on his headache, on not being caught, and then… they’re out.

 James closes the door behind them carefully and says, “All right, then?”

 Lily undoes her Disillusionment Charm and says, “Almost. Give me a moment, I want to buy something.” She’s walking away, braid swishing as she slips between buildings towards the main Hogsmeade streets. “Be right back.”

 “Lily? Lils, love, we have chocolate at home!”

 “Be right back!”

 James’ next protest turns to grumbles as she disappears fully, without a charm. “What is she doing now?”

 “I… don’t know?”

 “Hmm,” James says, before the glimmer of him sighs heavily. “Now we wait, I s’pose.”

 “Guess so.”

 “…While I am a champion loiterer, I am not great at being patient _and_ quiet. They are mutually exclusive things, you know, Harry.”

 “Oh, absolutely.”

 “Wise man. So! Now that I’ve got you alone, I’ve got to know.” James’ voice is very serious. No pun intended. “The burning question on everyone’s minds.”

 “Yes?”

 “Do you play Quidditch?”

 Harry laughs. “Only since first year.”

 “ _Now_ I know you’re lying to me. Except, no, this proves everything. What position?”

 “Seeker. I did something a bit stupid in my first Flying Class and instead of giving me detention for life, McGonagall marched me straight to the Gryffindor team captain. They needed one desperately, having just lost theirs, so… didn’t really have a clue what was going on, but, y’know, no detention sounded good.”

 James cackles again. “That sounds… exactly like her. I played Chaser, but sometimes I’d fill in as Seeker in pick-up games sometimes. Not my favourite position, personally, but… Alright, Harry, alright.”

 “Thanks,” Harry says wryly.

 James is about to get started on Worst/Most Embarrassing Quidditch-Related Accidents – a topic that begins even more seriously – when Lily appears from between the buildings again, bookbag still slung over her shoulder. The only change is that she’s holding a bottle of Sparkling Water. She holds it out in Harry’s direction, the bottle fizzing with multi-coloured lights inside, missing him by only a foot.

 “Here, for the dehydration headache.”

 “Thanks,” Harry says again, awkwardly, reaching out of the Invisibility Cloak to take it.

 “You nearly gave me a panic attack for _that?_ ”

 “Kettle? Cauldron.”

 “McKinnon’s house is a disaster, but I’m pretty sure she has water, love.”

 “Let’s hope so, if they’re all getting along like a house on fire,” Lily answers, unconcerned. “It’s the thought that counts. Shall we?” 

 

 


	21. The Other Three Quarters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there was a second part to that statement, it doesn’t come, as the witch at the end of the hall looks towards them in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 20 and 21 were a double update. Did you get both?
> 
> So... who _was_ at the door?

 Marlene McKinnon’s house is not on fire. The country road is just as they left it, steady and comfortable, and they’re greeted by the same bright red mailbox, tallish hedge, and sprawling, well-tended garden. The house beyond looks quiet, peaceful in the late afternoon light, and none of them can hear any shouting as they meander down the path towards it, stripping spells and cloaks as they go.

 “So, this was fun,” James says, tossing a grin towards Harry. “We should do this again sometime.”

 “Well, we sort of have to,” Harry replies, smiling back.

 “Eugh, don’t say it like  _that._ ”

 Harry snorts at how disgusted James sounds, the cloak tossed over one arm and the bottle of Sparkling Water in the other hand. He feels drained and achy and not really looking forward to McKinnon’s poking, but he’s keen to see Regulus again. He feels… better… vaguely. Better able to stop giving Regulus repeated crises, at least, and hopefully help him find better ground with Sirius. If he and James and Lily can get on decently, despite the obvious mess and the crying and the secrets, and agree to try in the face of the unknown, then there’s hope for Regulus and Sirius.

 Lily doesn’t bother with the doorbell this time; the doorknob turns with a clunk and she shoves the bright red door open. “If Marl hasn’t got dinner on,” she says, “we should just pop out for takeaway. Honestly, once we hand this over, we might have to keep her from accidentally burning water-”

 Lily trails off, interrupted several steps down the dimmed hall by loud barking and several voices clamouring from deeper inside the house. There are shadows moving over the doorway of the lit kitchen at the end of the front hall. Not panicked, not angry, but unfamiliar and too many – several women, almost indistinguishable, speaking all at once over one another. The distinct sound of company.

 It takes Harry several seconds to realize what else is markedly wrong: Marlene McKinnon’s front hallway looks entirely different. Larger? No, larger because it’s clean. Spotlessly clean. The strewn shoes, bicycles and broomsticks, coats, purses, and rakes are all just gone. Even the hooks on the cream walls and the front table are empty and gleaming, free of dust, stains, and the house of any signs of being lived-in.

 The house that gave the Room of Hidden Things a run for its money could now put the most Dursley-ish cleaning daydream to shame. The only difference is the room looks stripped rather than respectable. There are no decorations.

 At the end of the long hallway, the kitchen door swings open so fast that it slams into the wall. Suddenly, Marlene McKinnon is there, splayed like a starfish with a death-grip on the doorframe. Her frizzy blonde hair is dishevelled exactly like someone who sprinted for the door in a wild-eyed panic.

 “Lily and Jim!” she crows, unnecessarily loudly. “How nice to see  _just_ the two of you!”

 Behind Marlene’s one-woman barricade, the shadows move about under the kitchen lights. The barking continues, much of the consternation of several strangers inside. One of the voices – a woman, loud and displeased – rises above all else to demand: 

 “Leeny, who’s at the door? Did they just let themselves in?”

 “I wonder what  _that_ would be like!” Marlene snaps over her shoulder and someone laughs.

 More barking, even louder, and the same unknown woman says irritably, “Oh, move you silly dog!”

 “Leeny, who  _is_ it?”

 Marlene ignores the question from this new, disdainful second voice – almost indistinguishable from the first, separable mostly by the overlap of sentences – her eyes bouncing desperately between Harry and the cloak. It doesn’t take a Ravenclaw to take the hint.

 James looks at Harry and Harry looks at James, while Lily apparently stares aghast around them at the unnatural sight of a perfectly clean hallway. Then James practically yanks the Sparkling Water out of Harry’s hand and Harry fumbles to unfold the Invisibility Cloak. The cloak hits Lily in the face and James has to free it, then James is yanking the hood up just as Harry pulls it around his shoulders and vanishes into thin air.

 “More importantly, Leeny,” says a third voice, amused, “why are you standing like that?”

 Marlene’s shoulders droop in relief, before she tenses again, whirls around, and faces the three voices in the kitchen. “No reason,” she says, unconvincingly, before she points at a scene unseen. “Don’t you dare! Don’t be rude to my guests!”

 “Well, then,” the owner of the first voice, the irritated one, says as they forcibly sweep past Marlene and into the dimmed hallway. If there was a second part to that statement, it doesn’t come, as the witch at the end of the hall looks towards them in silence.

 The similarity to Marlene is striking. The other woman is slightly older, perhaps late to mid-twenties, dressed in plain and faded black robes, and her blonde hair is braided in a tight crown. She looks severe, in the yellowish light from the kitchen, next to Marlene’s nervousness. Yet… Harry might not be able to tell them apart if not for their different styles of hair and dress, or their different expressions and stances. They share the same sharp, long face and same gangly height. They share the  _exact_ same face and height, Harry notices as he stares; they’re almost identical apart from a slight age difference.

The woman is holding a wand in front of her chest, loosely, pointed politely at the ceiling. As though she was caught in the middle of a spell and simply had yet to put it away. It’s a plain, pointed wand in a pale wood. It makes Harry beware, though, especially of his own pointed  _lack_ of wand.

 A soft bark from the kitchen, and the new woman looks towards the source with a frown, before looking back down the hall. “Lily and James Potter, I presume? May I suggest that you  _train_ your dog before you leave it in the company of strangers, uncontrolled and unruly?”

 “Uh, sorry,” says James.

 The woman sniffs, unimpressed, and flicks her wand in their direction. Before any of them can do more than stiffen, the front door slams shut hard enough to rattle the walls, interrupted only by the heavy clunk of the lock.

 “Don’t leave the door open,” the woman chastises, holding her wand close to her chest again. “You might let all manner of poor winds in.” She seems completely oblivious to just how uncomfortable everyone is, including Marlene, incredulous and paled. “Leeny, are you going to perform introductions or not? As host, it’s your responsibility to do such things now.”

 “I thought hosts were allowed to  _choose_ their own dinner guests… What the-? Oh, it’s you.” Marlene moves her leg, being nudged at by an insistent snout, to let a great black dog squeeze through the doorway and bound down the hall. “Lils and Jim, this is your silly dog. Snuffles, you know Lils and Jim, right?”

 “Leeny,” the woman repeats, unamused.

 “What?”

 James crouches down to greet the massive, Grim-like dog that bounds up to him, wagging its tail and snuffling at his hands. It can only be Sirius in his animagus form, but Harry stares wide-eyed from beneath the cloak, hands twisted in the fabric, because even Sirius’  _animagus form_ looks younger. Well-fed, clean, free of grey around the muzzle, and even free of other brittle edges to be ringed with grey. He’s bulkier, brighter; his movement freer. The only familiar thing about him is his canine grin as he rubs his face into James’ affection.

 Marlene sighs, loudly. “Lils, you remember Daisy, right? Daisy, this is Lily’s Jim Potter.”

 “Hello, Ms. McKinnon,” Lily says politely.

 “Mrs. Potter, now, I hear,” Daisy McKinnon returns evenly, exactly as Harry might expect of one of the least Daisy-ish people he’s ever seen. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

 “…Thank you.”

 Another shadow comes over Marlene, who turns only enough to scowl at its owner. Sirius stops playing affectionate dog with James and turns, winding his way around James’ legs, the wag of his tail slowing to a stop. Harry might be invisible, but the tension in this uncomfortably spotless hallway isn’t.

 “Leeny,” Daisy says warningly.

 “ _What,_ ” Marlene answers, and moves out of the doorway anyway.

 If Harry thought he was seeing double before, the next woman to come from the kitchen doorway doesn’t help his doubts. Another witch enters, with the same face and height, separated only by her embroidered black dress, her blonde hair tied in a high bun, and a wrinkled unhappiness about her face. With her standing between Marlene and Daisy, Harry could think he was seeing triple.

 “They really did just let themselves in,” the new woman says.

 “They were invited.”

 The new woman ignores Marlene and turns to Daisy. “We were in the middle of an important discussion. They’re going to have to leave. If you had just focused instead of playing maid and then  _nursemaid_ with Leeny…”

 “Yes, thank you, Etta,” Daisy says sharply.

 “You’re too lenient with her,” Etta continues.

 “Isn’t that why we call her ‘Leeny’?” says a third voice from  _beside_ Harry. Another woman has appeared, leaning against the doorframe to the living room, only a few steps in from the front door. “Beyond the fact that she used to be so tiny? Teeny little Leeny.”

 “Yes,  _thank you,_ Cella.”

 It’s all Harry can do to get his heart working again,  _thanks._ James and Lily don’t seem to be doing much better; Lily’s grip is choking her half-raised wand and the bookbag straps; James has his wand gripped tightly, the Sparkling Water knocked over on the floor. Sirius stands defensively between everyone else and the stranger, not exactly growling but definitely ready to. Harry wonders what Sirius has done with his wand and how he could invisibly convince him to fetch it.

 Harry also has to wonder what Sirius has done with  _Regulus._ Regulus made such a fuss over not being seen earlier; there’s no way that he would have been content to reveal himself to… whoever these witches are. Is he hiding? If so  _where?_ There isn’t a boot left for a mouse to cower in.

 Safe under the Invisibility Cloak – always for a given value of safe – Harry takes the opportunity to look the new woman, Cella McKinnon, up and down. Cella too shares the same face as the other three McKinnons, but there’s an amused twist and a youth to her identical features that makes her most similar to the Marlene that Harry first met. She’s dressed in a long, faded black coat overtop a dark shirt and old slacks, her blonde hair long and loose past her shoulders – easily Muggle-passing, which matches Marlene but not the others. There’s a drooping casualness to her posture that seems to make Daisy and Etta straighten just by looking at it.

 “Stop sneaking around,” Etta snaps.

 “I’m just seeing what all the commotion’s about,” Cella answers, crossing her arms. Then she grins straight through Harry at Lily. “Hi, Silly Lily, it’s been a while. You’re looking good.”

 Lily exhales and lowers her wand. “Hello, Marcella.”

 “How’d those OWLs go in the end?”

 “Fine, thanks.”

 “Good. That’s good. You seemed stressed.”

 Harry can hear Etta McKinnon’s teeth grinding just by looking at her, and Daisy McKinnon, who seems to be the leader, looks equally unamused at the mention of school exams from years ago. Marlene appears to find it funny, but her smile is weak and uncomfortable between the two women.

 “Cella, if you could give up your fondness for evasive conversation for one moment? It would be appreciated,” Daisy interrupts - her wand held lightly; her expression politely hard. “Pardon us, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, for the abrupt dismissal, but we didn’t come here to make small talk with Leeny’s guests. If you could collect your pet and any other things, and shortly be on your way-”

 “You don’t get to dismiss  _my_ guests!” Marlene snaps. “This is my house!”

 “This is an important family matter and I can’t allow anymore avoidance of responsibility. I’ve allowed you to waste my time long enough just coming here. I apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, really, but it’s best you go. Don’t leave the door open on-”

 “They’re my dinner guests! I have plans with them! I had plans with them first, which you would’ve known if you’d just listened to me, or done the  _polite_ thing and asked me when I was free instead of planning some spontaneous siege!”

 “Plans change, Leeny,” Daisy says firmly.

 “They’re not going anywhere! I’ll hear you out, but don’t you dare kick out  _my_ guests in  _my_ house!”

 “Great-Aunt Bronwen’s house, you mean,” Etta corrects, from Marlene’s other side.

 Marlene whirls on the woman and jabs her finger at her. “That she gave to  _me._ Not you! Not Daisy! Not Cella!  _Me._ To invite whomever I want to be in it! And you’re lucky I’m not kicking you out of it now!”

 “Yes, and what  _fine_ company you’re keeping, Leeny.”

 “Enough,” Daisy snaps, before Marlene can answer that. “This is a family matter, not a show.”

 Marlene scoffs at her. “I’m the host, aren’t I? I can put on dinner and a show if I want to.”

 Beside Harry, Cella McKinnon snorts. Harry might have too, if he weren’t feeling just a tad terrified out of his wits and just a bit completely out of his depth, caught watching some sort of uncannily identical triple act. Quadruple act, if he could keep Cella in his sight while watching Marlene and the other two. He’d be asking himself if this were even real, if not for how everything is definitely, uncomfortably, unfortunately very real.

 Somehow, of all the things in this dim hallway, Daisy of the black robes and braided crown zeroes in on Cella’s soft snort immediately, and looks over both her relative and the Potters with a scowl. Lily and James move closer to each other, with Sirius still between them and the McKinnons, hackles twitching, claws clicking on the gleaming floor as he shifts his stance. Harry can see Daisy’s eyes flick down to the dog, severe and displeased, before back to the Potters again.

 “Very well. Plans change, and I can see we’ll have to make this discussion brief. Mr. and Mrs. Potter, why don’t you take your pet outside for a time? Spend some energy? I believe you may find my sister’s house companion somewhere on the grounds, tending to the garden.”

 Neither Lily nor James move to comply. Instead, Lily looks evenly back at Daisy, who looks so very courteously displeased, before looking to Marlene. Marlene looks back at Lily with the expression of someone who might as well be stuck between a pissed-off dragon and a territorial nundu, and frankly can’t believe she’s back in this old hat again.

 “You go on, Lils,” Marlene says, with a tight smile. “Won’t take a tick.”

 “Okay. We’ll just be… outside… then.”

 Lily reluctantly turns around, then pauses uncertainly, and Harry realizes it’s because she knows he’s behind her but not where exactly. Harry edges carefully to the side of the hallway, pressing himself against the opposite wall from Cella in the sitting room doorway, as Lily takes a deep breath and moves very obviously towards the door handle. Once she has it, she exhales in subtle relief, and just as carefully opens the door.

It’s not a wide hallway. Harry and Lily are inches apart, Lily trying to give all the walls as wide a berth as she can, with Harry on the tips of his toes to avoid a collision. The door opens on Harry’s side of the wall, but Lily makes sure not to open it far enough to crush anyone unlucky enough to be hiding behind it on the other side. It’s very convenient for and conscientious of Harry.

 Unfortunately, it’s not exactly casual. Cella, essentially next to them, is watching the display with very bemused confusion, the exact expression of someone wondering if they’re about to show someone how to work a door. Daisy, the leader of these McKinnons, has a steadily deepening scowl; Etta, the other one, has narrowed her eyes; and Marlene looks like she’s physically in pain.

 “It’s really alright, Lils,” Marlene calls out, and gives a cocky grin that couldn’t fool someone Confunded. “Just get out of here already. I’ll see my sisters out soon enough.”

 “Well… come find us when you’re done.”

 “Will do.”

 The front door is open. Harry can’t neatly slip out now, but he could gently nudge Lily and hurry out into the front garden. He could wait for Lily to step outside and follow her out, since James and Sirius are also giving her a subtly wide berth, more than enough for a couple invisible people to follow her out. James is patting Sirius, gently tugging at the Sparkling Water that the dog scooped up from the floor, casting anxious glances between Lily and the three women at the end of the hall.

 There isn’t any excuse where Harry could say he just didn’t have the opportunity to leave. That there was some power keeping him from fleeing dark, prying eyes. Piercing stares that make him hold the Invisibility Cloak closer to him as though a gaze could rip it away, just in case, are really to be avoided when he doesn’t want anyone else to know he exists.

 Aren’t the McKinnons supposed to be a family of seers or something?

 But… Lily steps outside and Harry almost unpeels himself from the wall to follow when he makes the mistake of glancing back. Daisy is still scowling towards the Potters, but Marlene and the other woman have turned on each other. The other woman, Etta, has a grip on Marlene’s left arm, while Marlene tries to quietly pull free and frowns back, looking frustrated. Etta is whispering, but the harshness of it, sight and sound, carries down the dim and emptied hall.

 And… Harry James Potter, especially under the cloak, is nothing if not a champion eavesdropper.

 “– time to remember where your loyalties  _ought_ to lie, Leeny.”

 Marlene looks unhappily towards the door, towards Cella, towards Daisy. James and Sirius are following Lily out now, carefully but at least more casually, James waving over his shoulder as he passes Harry. Cella’s arms are crossed, bemusement gone, as she watches the Potters go. Daisy only has eyes for the door, maybe for the McKinnon in the nearby doorway, and her expression isn’t even remotely lenient.

  _This is… a terrible idea,_ Harry thinks, a cold feeling in his stomach.

 Sirius lingers on the doorstep, tail swishing back and forth, ears alert. Perhaps he can tell that Harry hasn’t stepped outside. He can probably tell. Or maybe it’s that he can probably clearly hear whatever Etta is whispering to Marlene and likes it about as much as Harry does, if the way his sharp teeth are becoming more visible is any clue. The massive dog’s shoulders are twitching again.

 “– instead of  _wasting_  your time with these people, you could be –”

 “Snuffles? Snuffles, c’mon, boy,” James calls.

  _Absolutely terrible, terrible idea. Really, really stupid,_ Harry tells himself again, still not moving.

 Daisy McKinnon, severe and fair and definitely one of the least Daisy-ish people Harry’s ever seen, meets the Grim’s stare evenly. Her wand is held around her chest, but she turns it very slowly towards the door and, before Harry can ask himself for the dozenth time if he’s  _really_ doing something this foolish, flicks her wand in the dog’s direction.

 The front door slams shut. Harry’s heart stutters as he seems only inches from losing his nose to a bright red door. Sirius yelps and bounces from the doorway just in time. All the windows seem to rattle from the impact, the sound of which interrupted the whispers so that the clunk of the lock echoes down a dim and silent hallway again.

 Leaving Harry pressed against a wall, under the Invisibility Cloak, without a wand, stuck in a disturbingly clean house with Marlene and three apparently unfriendly McKinnon sisters. None of whom, hopefully, know he’s here.

 Regulus is probably outside and definitely going to be upset about this.

 

~

 

 “Enough, Etta,” Daisy says firmly. “Let Leeny go. Back to the kitchen. Cella, come.”

 Etta releases Marlene with a scowl and immediately returns through the kitchen doorway, leaving Marlene to rub at her arm and frown after her. Marlene turns that frustrated look on Daisy, but Daisy ignores it and sweeps past her younger sister into the kitchen as well. Beside Harry, Cella sighs and leans her head against the doorframe.

 “Cella,  _now,_ ” Daisy says from the kitchen. Then, less harshly: “Leeny, you as well. If you hadn’t persisted in your games of avoidance, perhaps this would be over by now.”

 “I didn’t ask you to clean my house!” Marlene snaps. “I was  _doing things_ with all that stuff! I don’t come into your room and mess around with all your stuff!”

 “Perhaps because I keep my living space in an acceptable state,” Daisy’s voice answers, unaffected by Marlene’s anger. “If you can’t keep this house in a liveable state by yourself, then perhaps you shouldn’t have it. I refuse to have to put up with your trash.”

 “It’s not trash! It’s  _mine,_ ” Marlene says, becoming increasingly angry. “This is my house! You can’t just come in here and ruin things! I had experiments out and now I don’t even know what you did with them! I’ll have to start all over again thanks to you!”

 “What we did was clean up properly. You ruin things all on your own.”

 “Etta,” Daisy says warningly.

 “It’s my house! I can ruin my house and my stuff if I want to!”

 “ _Leeny._ Stop arguing with Etta. I didn’t come here to listen to you throw one of your fits. Get in here and stop avoiding this discussion already.” Daisy raises her voice then, to a tone of furious order. “ _Marcella,_ stop sneaking about and come in here now! _You_ ’ve delayed this enough as it is! It shouldn’t be too much to ask that you two come when called!”

 With a heavy sigh, Cella pulls herself off the doorframe and goes. Harry hesitates at first, but then he pulls himself off the wall and, keeping his distance, silently follows her down the hallway. Cella pats Marlene on the shoulder and slips into the kitchen and, with obvious reluctance and a grimace, Marlene finally enters. The door is left wide open, light spilling from the kitchen turned room of discussion yet again, and Harry cautiously approaches as the conversation begins.

 “Finally,” says the voice of Etta. “Tea, Leeny?”

 “No, thanks.”

 A clatter of crockery, then Daisy speaks. “The time for tea and pleasantries has apparently passed. I’ll be blunt, Marlene. We want you to give up whatever you’re doing with this ‘Order of the Phoenix’ and return to the Steeple.”

 “No.”

 “Consider your decisions properly for once-”

 “Also no.”

 Laughter, and Harry peers through the doorway just in time to see Daisy scowl at Cella, who has a hand over her mouth. The kitchen looks like an entirely different room, spotlessly clean, with the elder-looking two McKinnons standing by the sink. Cella is leaning against a countertop, away from the others, while Marlene stands just a few steps inside the door with her back to Harry.

 Daisy turns her irritated expression away from Cella and back to Marlene. “No one is trying to take your house away, Leeny. By all means, keep your house – and your house companion – if you must. But surely you can see the danger and foolishness of the people you’ve involved yourself with.”

 Marlene stays stubbornly silent, which is… new.

 “They’re inept and directionless,” Daisy continues, as though listing the core facts of the universe. “Yet they challenge the Dark Lord directly. All they will succeed in is getting themselves killed.”

 “What else could be expected of Muggleborns and Squibs?” Etta demands. “And fools like the Potters. They only know how to overreact and cause trouble. Teenagers playing at vigilantism and looking for war will only escalate civil debate.”

 “You mean that one where our fellow purebloods debate whether or not Muggles are even people and if Muggleborns should be sent to their own separate school?” Marlene answers, a line of iron in her mocking tone. “Or better yet… Azkaban! How about that debate the Ministry’s having about whether or not to tell the public about people going missing... and turning up dead if they’re lucky?”

 Etta doesn't seem impressed. "Don't get hysterical, Leeny. You overre-" 

 “Let people be fools,” Daisy interrupts. “We aren’t denying that the Dark Lord and his murderous followers are a problem, Leeny, one that must be stopped. But your Order is ineffectual and idiotic. It will not do what must be done and we don’t want you to risk yourself on their rebellion.”

  Harry can't see Marlene's expression, but he can see the way, after several expectant seconds, she stands slightly taller. He can see the way she sets her shoulders and raises her chin. He can see her fists clenched at her sides, her wand pointed firmly at the floor.

 "I can ruin myself if I want to,” she says.

 It shouldn’t be possible for Daisy’s expression to become harder, but it does. Beside her, Etta is staring disbelievingly. Both expressions are completely at odds to the last sister, off to the side, as Cella smiles like she expected nothing less than self-destruction from Marlene.

 The smile disappears quickly, though, as Daisy steps forward.

 “No, you _can’t._ You have a responsibility to yourself and this family. This is not a game, Leeny, not whatever consequence-free adventure that certain others would have had you believe.”

 Harry notices that Etta tries to exchange a hateful look with Cella at this, but Cella is too busy leaning back against the counter and staring boredly at the ceiling. Etta isn’t happy about this. If stares were spells, Marcella McKinnon would be on fire.

 “You’re no longer a child and there is no more room for pretending,” Daisy declares. “It’s time to come home and put your abilities to a better cause. One that has hope of succeeding.”

 “It’s time to come home to your _family,_ ” Etta adds fiercely. “If that means _anything_ to you.”

 Daisy frowns, glancing briefly towards Etta, but doesn’t disagree. Harry wishes, somewhat desperately, that he could see Marlene’s expression at the moment. He’s still limited to the stiff line of her back.

 “…Don’t look at me,” Cella says, lazily throwing up her palms from where she’s still leaning against the counter, now with her legs crossed. “I’m just here because it was either this or Azkaban.”

 Daisy and Etta scowl at her in synchronization, but Marlene just laughs.

 “I was wondering,” she says. “Finally get caught?”

 Cella grins, a sly and bemused thing that makes her look almost exactly like the Marlene that Harry met before. “Something like that. Couldn’t be helped. You know what a weakness I have for a pretty face, Leeny.” She shrugs, ignoring the stares burning into the side of her head.

 “Cella is here because she’s agreed to _redeem_ herself and work with us for the sake of our family,” Daisy says.

 “And because there’s only so far the family influence can stretch to keep her out of jail.”

 “Yes, thank you, Etta,” Daisy says.

 “They don’t have anything solid on me and never did, and everyone knows it,” Cella says lightly, shoving her hands into her coat pockets.

 Etta makes a derisive sound that isn’t quite amusement. “But they won’t _need to_ with the way the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is going. They _don’t_ need to and you know it. All it’ll take is _one more_ incident and Crouch not wanting to bother with you anymore, and Mum won’t be able to save your ungrateful-”

 “Thank you, Etta!” Daisy says loudly.

 “Yes, thank you, Etta!” Cella immediately mimics, and smiles slyly when Marlene laughs again.

 Etta throws up her hands while Daisy scowls. “I told you they’d be more trouble than they were worth!” Etta says. “Neither of them are going to take this seriously now. Just tell them what Mum said – there’s no point in trying to reason with them – and let’s leave Leeny to her precious house and _guests-_ ”

 “Etta, _stop_ talking.”

 Very reluctantly, Etta stops. She scowls at the entire room in silence.

 Daisy closes her eyes, exhales, and says, “Cella, _shut up._ ”

 Off to the side, Cella pauses from where she’d been just about to say something. Instead, she closes her mouth and rolls her eyes dramatically in Marlene’s direction. Harry notices that she hunches slightly into her black coat, casualness belied by the way she watches Daisy.

 Daisy’s eyes open, just as dark and dangerous as her sister’s.

 “I will not have this visit be a complete waste of time. Leeny, you are wasting yourself and you know it. You are a McKinnon, and if that means anything to you, you will come home to the Steeple. Mum has plans that could end this nightmarish nonsense, and she wants our help. She wants _your_ help, Leeny.”

 The plea isn’t exactly heartfelt, but it’s not without emotion. There looked to be something like softness there in that last sentence, and the scowls around the room have disappeared. There’s a strain in the air, as the three other McKinnons wait for Marlene’s answer.

 “…What for?”

 There’s no softness in Marlene’s voice when she answers, just suspicion. Daisy frowns.

 “I’m good at what I do,” Marlene says, and jabs a finger at her sisters. “But what can I do that you three _and_ Mum can’t? Why does she need me?”

 The scowl slips easily back onto Daisy’s face. It really wasn’t gone long. “She wants her daughters home. She wants our help to accomplish things _together._ We’re stronger as one, Leeny. As a family. It’s our duty to come together in a time of need, if there is to be hope of success against the Dark Lord.” 

 “What are you even asking, Leeny?” Etta demands, also scowling. “Do we really need to make you feel special before you’ll accept you have a role to play?”

 “Yeah, that’d be great, actually.”

 Cella laughs again, and the tension of the room only goes up.

 “Look,” Marlene says, before either Daisy or Etta can tear into Cella again. “Is there anything you and Mum need me for _right now?_ Like, ‘someone is going to die within the next twenty-four hours’ need me? Or ‘we’re here because Mum sent us in the hopes that the three of us would bring you home and she’ll be disappointed if we fail’ need me? Take a moment to think about it.”

 “It’s the second one,” Cella answers, without taking that moment.

 “Well, great,” Marlene says. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

 “ _Leeny._ ”

 “No, I’m going to stay in _my_ house and have dinner with _my_ friends, and talk about _our_ plans to help people. And if you actually need me for anything more than wisps, then you can send me an owl like _adults_ – or a howler, I’m not picky – and we can talk about whatever plans Mum has.”

 Neither Daisy nor Etta look happy about this, but Marlene plows forward.

 “Remember, Daisy? You said I could keep my house – and my _friends_ – if I must. And I must, because I want to. The Steeple’s cramped. Whatever certain others would have you believe, I’m actually not unreasonable.”

 “…That sounds reasonable to me,” Cella says.

 “Then it’s agreed! Alright, good family discussion everyone. Time for you to go.”

 Nobody moves, and Marlene sighs.

 “You would be more helpful at the Steeple,” Daisy says.

 “I’m happier here,” Marlene says simply.

 Daisy doesn’t seem to have an immediate answer to this.

 “…Are you going to quit the Order?” she says, instead of arguing that point.

 “Mmm… no.”

 “Then you’re going to be no help to us. Your involvement with those people puts us all at risk.”

 Marlene shrugs, stiffly. “Well, you have fun with your ‘risk-free’ plans to successfully get rid of You-Know-Who, then. I don’t actually understand what you want from me.”

 “She’s playing the fool on purpose, Daisy,” Etta declares. “Let’s just leave and tell Mum that Leeny’s being an idiot. We don’t need her anyway.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she steps forward and pushes past Marlene. “I have no idea why I thought we could have a reasonable family discussion.”

 Harry only barely manages to move out of the way in time, flinging himself against the far wall so Etta can storm into the front hallway. He stays there, trying to exist as silently and invisibly as possible, as Daisy herds a slow-moving Cella out of the kitchen. Marlene doesn’t let herself be herded, much to Daisy’s displeasure, but Cella obligingly ambles after Etta towards the front door.

 Cella pauses, halfway down the hall, and glances back. Harry holds his breath; he can’t tell if she’s trying to eavesdrop on Marlene and Daisy, or if she’s actually looking at him. Her eyes are dark and piercing, sharp despite her slouch, and they roam the hallway as though looking for someone, lingering where he’s standing.

 “I know. This conversation isn’t over,” Marlene says.

 “It’s barely begun,” Daisy replies coldly. “Come, Leeny, see us out.”

 Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Marlene step aside, gesturing for Daisy to leave the kitchen first. He’s more concerned about Cella, whose gaze has fixed on his spot against the wall and narrowed. But as Daisy sweeps into the hallway – Harry chokes down his held breath as the eldest McKinnon moves past him – Cella’s eyes turn away, followed by the rest of her, and she saunters away from Daisy without a word.

 Etta, waiting impatiently by the front door, finally opens it when she sees that she’s being followed. The lock clunks and the red door swings open, and it’s like a breath of fresh air down the hallway. Light and a slight chill sweep the house, entering as Etta immediately exits, shortly followed by Cella.

 Harry breathes out, silently, as Marlene and Daisy have both passed him. He lets himself relax enough to lean against the wall, rather than plaster himself against it, and doesn’t follow the McKinnons to the front door. He misses some farewell exchange between Marlene and Daisy at the door, quiet and tense, but can’t quite find it in him to be all that cut up about it.

 The exchange only lasts seconds, before Daisy turns and leaves. Cella calls out a goodbye to Marlene (“Seeya around, Teeny Leeny!”) that Marlene answers (“Not if you get arrested again!”), and Etta’s distant voice is only heard snapping at one of her sisters. Harry would go out on a limb and guess that it’s Cella.

 Marlene closes the door on any potential bickering. The outside light leaves the room immediately, but the cool air lingers in the wide, dim hallway as Marlene McKinnon leans her forehead against the front door, and sighs in the silence of her emptied house.

 “…Fuck,” she says.

 Then, after a few more seconds, more strongly: “ _Fuck._ ”

 Harry doesn’t really know what to do about this. He could slip outside and try and pretend to come in with Lily and James and Sirius, and that he didn’t just hear that entire conversation. His head still aches and now it’s spinning with questions he doesn’t even have the words for.

 Were those the McKinnons that everyone mentioned Voldemort having killed? Not just Marlene, but three sisters and a mother? And possibly a great-aunt? An entire family murdered, people had said in hushed voices and almost offhand remarks.

  _I cried all evening when I heard,_ Lily’s letter had said.

 Carefully, Harry removes the Invisibility Cloak. He feels vulnerable and almost dizzied as the silvery fabric drags over his skin, leaving him bare and visible near the kitchen doorway. He misses his wand; he misses Lily and James; he misses Regulus. He misses a time in his life when he wasn’t surrounded by secrets and uncertainty, struggle and untimely endings, though he knows that was a long, long time ago.

 There’s a war with Voldemort. Families are disappearing or divided. Some of the only people Harry knows who are doing something are being barely out of Hogwarts, if out at all, despite the risk. The time and place are different, most of the people are different, but the song and dance are the same.

 At the other end of the hall, Marlene sighs again and turns around. She catches sight of him instantly, standing in the light of the kitchen doorway, and of the cloak slung over his arm.

 “…I suppose you heard all of that,” she says.

 “Yeah.”

 Marlene leans back against the front door and sighs. “How very dare you, Harry Potter.”

 “Sorry,” Harry says. “I… sorry.”

 “For what? For eavesdropping or for them?” Marlene quips.

 Harry doesn’t really know how to answer this. “Um, both. But mostly the first bit.”

 “It’s alright,” Marlene assures him, pulling herself off the door and waving a hand as though pushing unpleasant family encounters out of mind. “It’s just part and parcel of being a McKinnon, and they’d never talk about anything too incriminating knowing other people are nearby, so… no harm done. Might as well make it a crowd. I’ll deal with them. They’re pushy, but they never really adapted to me building myself a backbone.”

 “That’s…” Harry doesn’t know how to finish his own sentence.

 Marlene doesn’t seem to expect it of him. “It’s something. They’re something. But then again, aren’t we all something? Speaking of somethings, you’re back! Did you find it?”

 “Yeah, um, Lily has it.”

 “Now _that’s_ something,” Marlene says agreeably, looking pleased. “You-Know-Who’s Horcrux. The Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw! Daisy and Mum can keep their secret plans that ‘actually have hope of succeeding’. We’ll have to get everyone back in here.”

 Harry has too many questions to begin making sense of all of them, but one comes to the forefront easily.

 “Where’s Regulus?”

 Marlene stops staring off into the distance and looks at him, focus coming back to her gaze. “What?”

 “Regulus?” Harry offers again. “Black? Sirius’ brother? He was here when I left.”

 “Oh, Baby Black. He’s still here. Give us a moment.”

 Marlene comes back over to him and waves him into the kitchen, where she goes over to the counter and pokes her wand at a stretch of wood next to the sink without cabinets. It takes a bit of muttering and wand-waving, but without seconds, a curved metal handle sinks out of the wood, followed by a raised cabinet door to match any other in the kitchen. Marlene opens it.

 “Luckily, Daisy and Etta aren’t clever enough to go looking for a hidden cabinet, much less notice one when they’re mad,” Marlene explains. “Cella is, but she won’t lift a finger to help them if she doesn’t have to and she’s not a snitch. Hello, Baby Black. Time to come out.”

 “I told you to _stop_ calling me that,” Regulus snaps, as he crawls out of the kitchen cabinet. He stands to his full height, stretching out the kinks of hiding in a small space, and sneers. “As though you have any room to talk, ‘Teeny Leeny’.” He notices Harry and his sour expression disappears immediately; he looks Harry up and down and nods in greeting, clearly pleased. “Hello, Harry. Did everything go well?”

 “Yeah, we got it,” Harry says, relieved, supposing that hiding a cabinet would be easier than pretending to be an armchair. Regulus doesn’t look any worse for the wear for being more or less stuffed underneath a sink, beyond being unhappy about it.

 Harry can empathize with him. Being stuck in cupboards is awful.

 Regulus actually smiles at Harry’s answer. It changes his entire face, so much so that Harry realizes just how tense and unhappy Regulus has been since the meeting in the graveyard. He looks younger, relieved and delighted, and it’s a little bit stunning. He looks like so many different people, all the time, but for this moment, in that smile, he looks like someone entirely new.  

 “Well done,” Regulus says. “I-”

 “I suppose you heard most of those conversations too,” Marlene interrupts. “And I suppose I can agree, one youngest sibling to another, not to call you names if you don’t call me names, Reggie.”

 The smile disappears as quickly as it came, and Regulus’ expression turns into something between frustrated and aloof. “I heard much of your circular confrontation, yes. I can’t say I’d ever had the pleasure of encountering your sisters before, _Leeny_.”

 Harry has the distinct feeling he’s watching a duel in the making. It’s not a new feeling, nor an uncommon one. There are plenty of people in the world – especially in Hogwarts, and even among Gryffindor Tower – who just don’t get on. He’s not worried about this pair, yet, but he really does wish he had his wand.

 “They remind me of my own dear family,” Regulus says mildly.

 Marlene raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

 “Yes, only nicer.”

 Marlene laughs, and Harry can’t tell if she’s actually offended as she smiles, sly and sharp.

 “Speaking of reunions,” Harry says. “Are we going to get everyone else?”  

 Marlene and Regulus both look at him, eye each other, then look at him again. Regulus makes a visible effort to relax, not doing a particularly good job of it, and Marlene shrugs stiffly.

 “You-Know-Who isn’t going to drop dead on his own,” she agrees.

 Regulus makes the strangled cat sound again and Harry’s hard-pressed not to laugh.

 “Dory’s out back, I think,” Marlene says. “Let me just make sure my sisters are gone, so I can start playing with Dark magic like you two promised. And start dinner. I forgot to do that.”

  


	22. From Me to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The look exchanged between Harry and James Potter is infinitely more comfortable than their initial meeting; if Regulus hadn’t any context, he might have sworn they were brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while.

Regulus has never been afraid of small places or the dark, but being stuck in a kitchen cabinet for an extended period of time makes for a compelling argument. Fortunately, McKinnon and sisters were excellently distracting if not entertaining. It was difficult to fear being in a cabinet when his hiding place was the only thing keeping him from being caught out, then presumably inevitably killed in some fashion or another.

 He has a crick in his neck and an ache in his legs that won’t abate no matter how he stretches them, and each stretch aggravates the dull pain in his lower abdomen. He glowers at McKinnon for the stubborn injuries her “quick-thinking” has given him.

 The best thing he can say about the cabinet was that it hadn’t been wet and was devoid of grasping hands, and that’s not something he’s willing to say at all. Or dwell on. He glares all the fiercer for this unwanted thought returning yet again – staunchly, silently, refusing to entertain the foul intrusion.

 McKinnon doesn’t seem bothered by his glaring in the slightest, a scheming gleam shining off all the angles of her face. She practically swans out of the kitchen to fetch everyone else.

 “You alright?” Harry asks.

 “Fine,” Regulus answers shortly, unsuccessfully pulling at the crick in his neck.

 “Everything go well here too?”

  _I was stuck in a cupboard listening to the McKinnons argue and have managed to further alienate everyone in this house,_ Regulus doesn’t say. Now is not the time to focus on his many, _many_ failures. The point of this entire disaster is to do what can be done to alleviate some of those failures, not make _nice_.

 “Well enough.” 

 Harry looks unconvinced. “Alright,” he says, despite that, shifting awkwardly.

 The gesture makes Regulus feel worse, as he unsuccessfully pulls at his neck again. He spent the majority of their separation wishing that Harry would hurry up, would come back, and would serve as support and distraction from all the aforementioned many, _many_ failures.

 “Did everything _else_ go well?” Regulus asks. It sounds stiff even to his own ears.

 Harry looks at him in confusion.

 Regulus elaborates, “With… your parents.”

 “Oh, um, yeah, that went fine,” Harry says. He looks a little embarrassed, but overall pleased. “They were… really good about everything, actually.”

 “Oh,” Regulus says. “That’s good.”

 It does not, however, feel good. As much as he is determined to be polite, or at least not to provoke open conflict or argument again, it is suddenly much more difficult than his resolution. As much as Regulus should be happy for Harry, should be pleased that Lily Evans and James Potter are coming around to their side, there is suddenly a very sour feeling as well that isn’t cooperating with logic.

 Harry is a bit of a wreck, he’s all but said as much himself, and yet Harry is the successful one.

 That sounds uncomfortably, annoyingly familiar.

 “Yeah, it was good,” Harry agrees.

 Regulus shakes his head and sets his shoulders. “How do you suppose McKinnon will reveal the Horcrux?” he says, because that, unlike near everything else, is a subject worth dwelling on. It’s why they came here. It’s what truly matters. “Did you acquire a method to destroy it?”

 “Uh, no,” Harry says. “There wasn’t really… I mean… unless you want to go kill a basilisk. I guess…”

 Regulus could think of worse stares to face: namely those of most of the people on this terribly rustic property. “I’d prefer not to,” he says airily. “However, when have my preferences ever been taken into account?”

 This makes Harry grin. It’s enough to make Regulus feel all the sourer about his wretched mood.

 “We’ll figure it out,” Harry says. He pauses for a moment, then adds, “About the locket…”

 “Yes?”

 “Well, are we going to mention that?”

 “When the need arises,” Regulus says curtly, because he _needs it,_ a net in case this entire venture falls off the broom. If Sirius becomes _difficult,_ Regulus needs something to appeal to the others, something to hold over their heads until he can work out a better plan. And he doesn’t want to call on Kreacher quite yet; he doesn’t want… to open that piece of his life… to open his _life_ again quite yet. Not quite yet.

 Harry looks like he might disagree.

 “Perhaps when we have a sure method to destroy it as well?” Regulus suggests defensively.

 “Alright,” Harry says, sounding less than convinced. 

 Which isn’t convincing Regulus’ nerves to settle either. He thought they already agreed on this. Something during Harry’s outing with James Potter and Lily Evans must have made him think again on an already settled agreement. “Did something happen?” Regulus asks. “To change your mind on the subject?”

 “No, not exactly,” Harry says, which is hardly helpful.

 Regulus corrects himself. Honestly, it’s not helpful at all. That’s rather less than helpful.

 What’s _also_ aggravatingly less than helpful is how the sound of a back door opening creaks through McKinnon’s now unnervingly clean home. Regulus can hear voices, of McKinnon and Sirius and the returning Potters. Not Meadowes’ voice, of course, because why speak when she can glare venomously at him?

 James Potter is first through the kitchen door and he makes directly for Harry, who looks anxiously back at James’ stern look.  James Potter stops in front of Harry and puts his hands on his hips, as Lily Evans, Sirius (no longer the great black dog that Regulus barely caught a glimpse of), and Marlene McKinnon file in behind him. No Meadowes at all, actually, which is interesting. Regulus avoids Sirius’ look in his direction, and instead focuses on Lily’s bemusement at her husband’s disapproval of Harry.

 “Now,” James Potter pronounces loudly, “I believe that you’re my son.” He holds out his hand for the Invisibility Cloak over Harry’s arm and says with overly dramatic sternness, “Hand it over. You’re grounded, kid.”

 Harry hands the Invisibility Cloak with a bemused smile of his own. “I’m an adult.”

 James takes this statement (and his Invisibility Cloak) and appears to think it over for several seconds. “Nope, no, you’re not,” he says decisively. “Grounded, mate. For life. You’re going to turn this old man’s hair gray. Lost your pocket money privileges too, just for the backtalk.”

 Harry’s smile gets wider. “Oh, no.”

 “Be more remorseful, young man,” Lily adds. “Look at how you’ve worried your mother.”

 McKinnon laughs easily, and puts an arm on Regulus’ brother’s shoulder. “In all _serious_ ness,” she says. “I won’t hold it against you, Harry. In fact, I’ll even generously assume you were concerned for my well-being instead of snooping. But, in case of emergency siege, don’t do that again. My sisters don’t have… let’s say much appreciation for outsiders getting in on the family business?”

 “Yeah, um, I think one of them… the long-haired one, Cella?” Harry says. “I think she may have seen me?”

 “Unlikely, with this,” James Potter says, folding the Invisibility Cloak over his arm.

 McKinnon stops leaning on Sirius and moves over to the dining table. “Seeing through that? Unlikely. _Seeing_ through it? Less unlikely than you think. But better Cella than Etta or Daisy. Cella’s reasonable.” McKinnon pauses as she pulls out one of the chairs. “Well… reasonable by McKinnon standards.”

 “Which is less than normal people but more than Blacks?” Sirius says, raising his eyebrows at her.

 “Somewhere around there,” McKinnon agrees, and drops into her seat at the head of the table. “Well? Let’s see this Horcrux that you went to go fetch. I’m beside myself with curiosity here, and I’ve been told I’m especially unbearable when I’m curious.”

 The Potter all exchange a look between themselves, and they look so… familiar. Familial.

 Lily Evans goes to sit by her unbearable friend first, and James Potter waves Harry forward with yet more dramatic flourishing. Harry just keeps his bemused look at the “after you” gesture, and goes to sit beside Lily. The look exchanged between Harry and James Potter is infinitely more comfortable than their initial meeting; if Regulus hadn’t any context, he might have sworn they were brothers.

 Regulus finds himself suddenly, surprisingly unhappy.

 Of course, it’s good that they’re gaining the trust of the Potters, but what Regulus sees clearly here is _Harry_ gaining the trust of the Potters. More importantly, what Regulus sees clearly here is the _Potters_ gaining Harry’s trust. This isn’t the first time someone started with Regulus and decided that they liked James Potter better. Regulus just never imagined that it would happen _twice._ Nor so quickly.

 It’s not the same, he tells himself, but that doesn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat, as for a moment it seems that James will take the seat next to Harry, at the opposite end of the table from McKinnon. Not only will this keep them apart, again, but Regulus will be stuck between James Potter and Sirius, or Sirius and Lily Evans’ self-proclaimed unbearable friend.

 Before James Potter sits, however, he looks towards Regulus. Regulus can’t fathom why; can’t see any of Potter’s thought process. He’s surprised, when for some unknown reason, James Potter circles around the dining table to take the seat next to McKinnon and across from Lily.

 Lily has slung a ratty bookbag off her shoulder and placed it on the dining table. She raises her eyebrows at her husband, as he seems to do something with his feet, under the table, as he throws himself down.

 Regulus doesn’t waste time in taking the seat next to Harry, before Sirius, who seems to be waiting for him, can take it. Regulus can’t rule out any behaviour in Sirius, so long as Sirius might think it would annoy him.

 “What happened to Meadowes?” Regulus demands.

 “She’s decided to commune with the cabbages, rather than hang around our nonsense,” McKinnon says, peeking curiously at the bookbag like an overgrown child. “Our garden doesn’t look after itself, you know. I’ll tell her anything she needs to know later.”

 Regulus doesn’t understand why they need to involved Meadowes at all. She’s a stranger, and she’s hardly contributed anything to the matter, much, _much_ less anything useful.

 “Aw, don’t be like that Baby Black,” McKinnon drawls. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you were concerned.”

 And before Regulus can respond to this new bit of inanity from McKinnon’s mouth, making some use of the nickname “Teeny Leeny”, the woman has upturned the ratty bookbag and lets something like a tiara tumble out onto the tabletop. It clatters to a spinning spot in the middle of them. Whatever response Regulus had imagined fades in the silence that’s fallen around them.

 “Merlin, Marlene,” Sirius says, from where he’s standing, only leaning on the back of his chair. “Do you think you could be a _bit_ more careful about handling that thing?”

 McKinnon shrugs. “Probably, but it’s hardly like I’m going to have a chance to toss You-Kn- Harry, what did you call him?”

 “Tom.”

 “Merlin, that’s forgettable.”

 “Yeah, that’s why he didn’t like it. Too common for him. Too Muggle.”

 “Spell me Stunned with that one,” McKinnon drawls, before looking back to Regulus’ elder brother. “It’s not like I’m going to have a chance to toss ol’ Tom about, now, am I? And have a seat, already.” McKinnon whistles, then she smirks. “Sit, boy.”

 “Like I haven’t heard that one before,” Sirius grumbles, and doesn’t.

 Regulus is aware of all this conversation going on, but really he only has eyes for the diadem in the middle of McKinnon’s dining table. He might have seen a drawing of the Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw once or twice, but not enough to commit the design to memory. He’s not entirely sure what he was expecting.

 He wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting with the locket either.

 Something grander, perhaps? Something somehow more glorious? Something truly _great_?

 Or something truly, obviously terrible?

 The diadem sits in the middle of the table, as unmoving and not-at-all insidious as any another object. It looks like nothing more than a discoloured old tiara. Much like the locket, it has the dull gleam of unkempt finery. Unlike the locket, it doesn’t have the shine and glitter of emerald wetness wrapped around its edges. It doesn’t have the drip and slime, or an accompanying black lake reaching back for him.

 Regulus could reach out and touch it, but he rather thinks he might throw up instead.

 He can feel the scratch and tickle of bile crawling up, and up, and up his throat. Regulus makes his decision, or rather, the decision is made for him, and he bolts from his seat and out of the kitchen. He saw a washroom on this floor. The kitchen sink is closer, but by _Morgana,_ he has just enough autonomy in this decision to refuse to throw up in front of everyone in that room. He slams the washroom door shut behind him, turns towards the toilet, and heaves.

 Perhaps it would be better if he actually had anything to throw up. As it is, he doesn’t. All he can do is heave.

 He can hear footsteps coming after him. Someone knocks on the door.

 “Reg?” Sirius calls. “Reg, what is it now?”

 Regulus wouldn’t deign to answer that if he could.

 “What room is that?” James Potter’s voice says, from another room.

 “It’s just the back washroom,” McKinnon answers, unbothered, from even farther away. “If Baby Black needs to powder his nose or something, just leave him. So, this is Ravenclaw’s Lost Diadem, huh? Looks like she had a smaller head than I would have guessed.”

 Regulus can feel the indignity of this moment burning up his face, as he tries to stop this involuntary response. Of all the ridiculous, _childish_ reactions! It’s a crown! It’s not even the right Horcrux! And yet…

 “Jim, come sit back down,” McKinnon says. “What do you and Lils want to do for dinner?”

 Regulus can hear footsteps moving away, and someone beginning to turn the doorknob. He fumbles for his wand, but he’s not nearly fast enough, and the burning in his throat nearly has him bent double. It’s a surprise when the doorknob turns back, without opening.

 “Regulus,” Harry’s voice says quietly. “Are you alright?”

 He tries to say _fine,_ but nothing comes out, only the beginning of a croak. Regulus has to clear his throat, which sends a feeling like fire down it, before he can answer. “I’m fine.”

 “Like shit, you are,” Sirius says.

 “I’m _fine,_ ” Regulus reiterates, louder and more clearly. His head and throat are throbbing, and he’s bent over a toilet, and what little of his stomach isn’t clenched is busy churning, but he _is_ fine. He doesn’t need Sirius to come in here and make a show of his momentary, complete involuntary weakness.

 There’s essentially nothing in the toilet bowl to see, besides some dribbled lines of bile, but even that’s too much and Regulus jams his hand down on the handle to flush it away.

 “…Is it the potion?” Harry asks quietly. “Still?”

 Regulus pauses, from where he was reaching for the sink to clean his face.

 “What potion?” Sirius demands.

 “None of your _business,_ ” Regulus says, before Harry can answer. He determinedly reaches for the tap, because he’s not going to leave this room with any sign of having been ill; he won’t be able to successfully pretend this never happened otherwise. “Go _away,_ Sirius.”

 Silence from behind the door, more suspicious than blessed, as it always is with Sirius. Regulus doesn’t know if his brother has left and doesn’t know if he wants Sirius to have given up so easily. The only thing he can hear is McKinnon’s annoying voice in the background, though he can’t make out what she’s talking about now.

 “Can I come in?” Harry asks, quietly.

 Regulus turns off the tap. “It’s ‘ _May_ I come in’,” he corrects. “Fine. I’m coming out anyway.”

 The doorknob doesn’t turn from the other side, Regulus is the one who opens the door. Harry is waiting for him, just outside, and… Sirius is leaning on the door to the kitchen, several steps away.

 “You alright?” Harry says.

 At the same time, Sirius says, “What was _that_ , Reggie?”

 “Keep your nose out of other people’s business, Sirius,” Reggie snaps. “I’m _fine._ ”

 “Yeah, that’s convincing.”

 “It’s a side effect of something from yesterday,” Harry interrupts. “From when Regulus and I met, during his attempt to get one of the Horcruxes, I think.”

 Regulus’ head snaps around to look at him, but Harry is looking at Sirius. When Harry does look at Regulus again, there’s no regret for what he just said. Harry just shrugs at Regulus and his betrayal of information, as though that was really necessary.

 “What?” Harry says.

 Regulus can’t come up with a response that isn’t a variant on the childish: _don’t tell my brother things._

 “Give us a minute?” Harry says to Sirius, and pushes Regulus back into the washroom. He shuts the door behind them, then looks steadily at Regulus. “If you don’t want anyone eavesdropping on this, you’ve got the next five seconds to do something about it.”

 Regulus glares at him, but waves his wand anyway. “ _Muffliato._ ” And lets a buzz settle around them.

 “Why would you tell him that?” Regulus hisses.

 “Why _wouldn’t_ you tell him that?” Harry counters, in his own hushed demand. “D’you really think he’s going to hang it over your head and _mock you_ for everything?”

 Regulus stares disbelievingly at Harry. “Yes!”

 That’s what Sirius _does._

 Harry doesn’t seem to have realized this, and has the audacity to look annoyed.

 “Look,” Harry says, “I’m sorry, I should have realized this earlier; you’ve been great about keeping _me_ together, really great, but are you _serio-_ ” He cuts himself off and corrects himself. “- _kidding me?”_

 “No, Sirius is incredibly juvenile-”

 Harry doesn’t even let Regulus finish the sentence before he interrupts. “You _drank an unknown potion_ last night,” he says. “I should have thought about this, but… look, the only person I _know_ who drank that potion besides you made it out of the cave and _was later killed_ within the hour.”

 Regulus stares. “Kreacher survived,” he points out.

 “Kreacher’s _not human,_ ” Harry counters. “Even if it’s _not_ the potion, I haven’t seen you _eat._ I’m starving, and I at least ate breakfast. Sirius just wanted to know if you were alright, and I don’t think he’s wrong to be asking. Are you _really_ alright?”

 “I’m _fine,_ ” Regulus reiterates unhappily, even though Harry’s beginning to convince him that he’s not. This conversation is leading Regulus’ thoughts places that he didn’t want to go quite yet, towards the things he’s trying not to think about.

 Whatever Harry thinks, the potion isn’t entirely unknown. Regulus listened when Kreacher told him about it, made every effort to make sure that Kreacher recovered from the terrible potion and that there were no lasting physical effects, and did some research. It’s not going to kill Regulus by itself, Regulus is mostly certain, especially when the entire purpose seemed to be a painful death at the hands of the Inferi.

 Harry doesn’t look as though he believes him. Regulus tries not to care.

 “Why won’t you just tell him about the cave and the locket?” Harry asks quietly. “I know he starts it half the time, so why don’t you tell him? Didn’t you talk to him _at all_ when I was gone?”

 “…I was in a cupboard under a sink,” Regulus says shortly.

  _I tried and it was a disaster,_ he doesn’t say. _The truth will just make him hate me more._

 Maybe not the bit with the cave and the locket, but…

 “I’m not bringing Kreacher into this in front of them,” Regulus says firmly.

 “I’m not asking you to,” Harry answers. “I just think you should try _talking_ to Sirius. He cares.”

 Harry had said that before, and Regulus believed him in many ways, the least of which was the way of someone who _wanted_ to believe. Regulus knows that he’ll regret all the paths untaken with Sirius, but he’s uncertain that Sirius feels the same. Talking to Sirius so far has been unsuccessful, and, Regulus is certain, would only continue to reveal the worst of him. Regulus was not only a Death Eater, but a coward who had been _bad_ at it, and a failed attempt to destroy a single Horcrux hardly imbued Regulus with self-confidence now.

 Some of this must show on Regulus’ face, because Harry’s expression changes from that of someone having an argument to sympathy. _Pity,_ Regulus thinks unhappily, and prepares to turn away.

 “I had a conversation with Lily while we were gone,” Harry says. “One that I didn’t mean to have, but… Look, I didn’t know that Sirius even had a brother until I was fifteen.”

 If that’s meant to sound inspiring, it falls painfully short.

 “Alright, that sounds bad,” Harry says. “But I didn’t even meet Sirius until I was thirteen; I didn’t even _know_ that I had a godfather or his name until I was thirteen.”

 Regulus stares. “ _How-”_

 “It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later. The _point_ is that I didn’t get to see _my_ Sirius nearly as much as I would have liked, only over the summers and through letters until he… died… about two years later. The summer before my fifth year, we were both in Grimmauld Place and I found the family tapestry. Sirius didn’t like being in Grimmauld Place, or talking about his family, but he talked about you when I asked.”

 “Wh- What did he say?”

 “He called you a stupid idiot for joining the Death Eaters and didn’t know how you’d died. He suspected you’d been murdered by Vol- Tom, or on Tom’s orders, for panicking and trying to back out after getting too far in. He tried to find out what’d happened, but… he never managed.”

 “He… could have asked Kreacher.”

 That makes the corners of Harry’s mouth tick up, but they fall again quickly. “Sirius hated Kreacher, and Kreacher hated Sirius twice as much. It never occurred to him to ask, and Kreacher couldn’t have told him anyway, remember? You told him not to tell your family.”

 “…What’s the point of this, Harry?”

 “I don’t know, whatever you make of Sirius trying to find out what happened to you, I guess,” Harry says, and his stare is even and piercing and bordering on pitying. “I remember now because I remembered it later, when I found out that it was you who’d stolen the locket, who’d figured out about the Horcruxes and tried to do something about it before I was even _born,_ much less trying to do the same thing.”

 Regulus has so many questions now, he doesn’t know where to begin. His eyes are threatening wetness at the edges, and Regulus refuses to give in. Blacks don’t do that. He’s not allowed.

“Mostly, I remember how Sirius looked sad – like he did when he remembered my dad sometimes, between laughing over the good memories. He tried to brush it off, but… I think he cared. I could see he cared. And I was sorry, that he never got to find out the incredibly brave thing you’d done,” Harry says.

 “This Sirius,” Harry continues, “isn’t my Sirius. Just like this Lily and James Potter aren’t my parents, not really. He hasn’t been through… any of what my Sirius went through, but, honestly that’s for the better, and… I don’t think he’s that different a person. If there’s one thing I know about Sirius, it’s that he’s loyal… and he cares far more than he pretends he does about some things.”

 The Sirius that Regulus knows likes to pretend that he doesn’t care about anything at all.

 “He’s not going to hand you over to Dumbledore or the Order or whatever you’re worried about, he’s said as much,” Harry says. “I’ve been… dealing with my own stuff and you’ve been pretty great in helping me, but… look, I just realized that I haven’t been as great to you. I can help you with Sirius, if you want, like… talking to him. I can ask Lily and James to get him to stop fighting with you, or I can try myself.” Harry then adds with warning consideration, “But I think that’s only gonna work if you stop too.”

 Harry puts his hand on Regulus’ shoulder. “You can tell them stuff,” he says. “It’s alright.”

 Regulus doesn’t know what to say, because a person shouldn’t be so capable of being so wrong and so right at the same time. He doesn’t know where to begin with his questions about Harry’s past. He doesn’t know where to begin to confess everything he’s worried about in the future and his own sorry past.

 He doesn’t want to make any motion towards his eyes, because then he’ll cry, and he can’t do that. He won’t.

 “I’m not telling him anything with _McKinnon_ or the Potters in the room,” Regulus says staunchly, and ignores how his voice wavers on him. Just like he’s been ignoring the pain in his head and his gut.

 “Alright,” Harry says. “That’s fair. Do you want me to try to get him and Marlene to stop the… uh…”

 “Unbearableness?” Regulus suggests. “No one’s succeeded in stemming yet in all their lives, but you’re welcome to be the next to fail.” He meets Harry’s eyes for that one, in case that came out too sharply. “Perhaps you’ll be the first to succeed.”

 “That sounds like the story of my life, so I’ll forgive the lack of confidence in me,” Harry says, and squeezes Regulus’ shoulder. “We’re in this together, right? Right beside each other, against the world and all that.”

 If Regulus is looking at Harry as though he can’t believe Harry exists, he’ll have to be forgiven for gaping just this once, because he’s having an extraordinary amount of difficult believing that Harry does, in fact, exist. Just earlier today, he was making haphazard plans for what to do when Harry turned out to be something besides his saviour. How by Morgana and Merlin and _everything_ is Harry Potter even _real?_

 How does Harry consistently manage to be so impossible? What happened to him to make him this way? How come Harry didn’t meet Sirius until he was _thirteen?_ How come Harry was the one to hunt Horcruxes? What _happened_ between Harry and his parents while they were gone, to make him turn to Regulus and say things like this and make Regulus _believe_ him?

 Regulus can hear a Sirius-like voice mocking him, calling him gullible again, and yet…

 “So… you don’t have to be alright,” Harry says. “You don’t have to say you’re fine if you’re not. You’ve had some pretty terrible things happen to you too; you nearly _died_ yesterday. It’s not your fault that you had to run to the washroom and throw up again seeing another Horcrux. Those things make _me_ want to be sick, and I have seen… well… _so many_ of them by now. You wouldn’t believe it, really.”

 “…I don’t believe anything you say, Harry, for the record,” Regulus says haughtily, and lifts his chin. He forces a smile up, and hopes that Harry can see he’s joking. “Not a single word. If I did, I’d be stuck in McKinnon’s washroom while she pokes at a Horcrux without either of us.”

 Harry snorts. “Oh, what a fate.” Then he grimaces, and says, “Are you ready to go back in there?”

 “I don’t want to be in here any longer, so I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Regulus replies.

 If he stays in here any longer and lets himself think too much, he may cry, or do something else he’ll regret.

 “I think that’s the story of my life too,” Harry says with a grin.

 “I’ll have to hear that story sometime,” Regulus quips, with a pointed look, as he dismisses the spell around them. He has so many questions that need answering. 

 “You and everybody else,” Harry says, as he reaches for the door and opens it. “After you.”

 Regulus steps out of the washroom, and is surprised to find that Sirius hasn’t been eavesdropping at the door. Regulus can see him, standing in the kitchen, through the doorway. Sirius looks towards him and… doesn’t shout out a quip or insult. No _“look who finally decided to join us”_ comes from his brother. Sirius does raise his eyebrows expectantly, but… that’s tame for Sirius.

 Regulus immediately suspects that the other Potters said something to his brother, like Harry to him.

 “Are they done?” McKinnon demands, and steps into view.

 Regulus’ hesitant smile fades into a glare, because he’d really rather not have any of these conversations near McKinnon. He hopes that she does actually know what she’s doing with this Horcrux, but doubts it. Harry pushing him forward, towards the kitchen, may be the only thing keeping Regulus from turning on his heel and shutting himself up in McKinnon’s washroom again.

 “Finally,” McKinnon says, and goes to sit back down. “Get back in here. We’ve been waiting for you two.”

 McKinnon falls into her seat at the head of the dining table, where Lily Evans and James Potter are still sitting. The both of them look up as they enter, but look neither pitying or unhappy with him. James Potter is twirling his wand boredly between his fingers, like a fool, and Lily has her feet up on Harry’s seat.

 “We ordered curry for take-out,” Lily Evans says, and looks at them both. She meets Regulus’ eyes easily. “Someone’ll pick it up in a bit. Is that alright?”

 “Sounds fine,” Harry says, and pushes at Regulus again.

 Regulus nearly elbows him for it, because he does _not_ need pushing forward like a child.

 “Is that alright by you, Regulus?” Lily Evans asks.

 “It’s fine,” Regulus echoes, slightly disbelievingly.

 “Good,” Lily Evans says.

 “Yeah, decided not to risk dying by Marlene’s cooking,” Sirius says, as he follows them to actually take a seat. “Someone might get turned into the wrong animal or something.”

 “Y’know, that might’ve actually happened if my sisters hadn’t cleaned everything,” McKinnon says in good humour, completely unoffended. “I’m not that bad a cook, but even I don’t know what I’ve done to the dishes or what the dishes’ll do sometimes. I once bought a plate that was supposed to curse anyone who ate off it into a pig. It’s an old favourite for mad hosts who like irony too much.”

 Regulus, for the first time in his life, as he takes a seat, resolves not to use any crockery or cutlery. At least, no crockery or cutlery as given to him by McKinnon. He might feel sorry for Meadowes, for having to live with this woman, if he didn’t think these two women deserved each other.

 “I’ll eat with my hands this time, thanks,” James Potter says, and Regulus nearly glares at him.

 That’s too similar to Regulus’ own thoughts and he doesn’t like it.

 “Oh? That’s different to usual, how?” Lily says, as Harry nudges her legs off his seat and sits down.

 “Well, normally I have hooves,” James replies, and Sirius laughs.

 Regulus doesn’t know what to do about this, sitting at a table with his laughing brother and Sirius’ friends. No one has made any mention of Regulus fleeing the room to throw up. As far as the table is concerned, it’s not important enough to mention and Regulus feels pathetically, embarrassingly grateful.

 Maybe the Potters are ignoring _him,_ instead of what just happened, but… Harry’s not picking the Potters over him. Harry’s beside him now, sending him a reassuring look that _shouldn’t_ work so well.

 “So, what are we going to do with _this?”_ McKinnon says, pointing at the middle of the table. “We’re going to have to eat off this table, so we’ve got to do something about the Horcrux.”

 Regulus forces himself to look at the diadem again, sitting plainly on the table. This is important. This is why they're here; at least, why they're here besides reuniting with Harry's parents and Regulus' brother (who they really didn't need if the sole goal was destroying Horcruxes), and Regulus won't be cowed by an object. Even a literally _anim_ ated one. He doesn’t have to flee the room again, but he does have to look away quickly. Just in case; just to keep his stomach down. He settles for looking near it, instead of directly at it. He looks at McKinnon, though he’d rather not.

 “I assume you have suggestions?” Regulus says.

 “Well,” McKinnon says, “I thought it only fair other people get time to put a word in first.”

 “How kind of you,” Lily says.

 “You know me, Lils. I live to please,” McKinnon drawls. “No one else has suggestions? Excellent.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while. I am continuously blown away from the interest and support in this fic. However, I would like to remind everyone that I had no idea where I was going when I originally began this fic and this is a shared hobby. If you don't like this fic or some aspect about this fic, I'd like to ask you to find another fic. Anyway, I've gotten behind on comments and I don't know if I can answer them all, but I'd like people to know that I do appreciate them. <3
> 
> It was weird getting into Regulus' head again. This wasn't supposed to be Harry and Regulus bonding, but I've been revisiting a lot of the earlier chapters and I missed them. (I haven't changed anything here on AO3 yet, but things may change in the future to reflect the solidifying overall plot of this fic; for example, when I first started this fic, I didn't know exactly how Harry ended up in the past beyond a vague trope, now I do, and it's pretty sick and different). Harry is applying his conversation with Lily to Regulus, apparently, because fluff. 
> 
> REC: [**Take It to the Man in the Moon**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13126917) (HP) - A sequel to The Cat Came Back. _Minerva McGonagall has stolen the Boy-Who-Lived. The McGonagall family discusses this. At least, they try to discuss this._
> 
> I also accidentally fell into Dragon Age while I was gone, as some of you probably noticed, which is probably a large part of why I was gone. (Sorry.) You can find some of the DA fics I've been writing in the meanwhile [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/846084).

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://lullabyknell.tumblr.com) ~ [My Ask Box](http://lullabyknell.tumblr.com/ask)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Things I Didn't Say](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624770) by [Chance13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chance13/pseuds/Chance13)




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